


A Hound and a Hawk

by MrsAlwaysWrite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsAlwaysWrite/pseuds/MrsAlwaysWrite
Summary: This story takes place after Season 7 but instead of joining Jon Snow in King's Landing, Sandor Clegane travels to Winterfell to protect his lost little bird. Unknown to him, Sansa Stark has grown into a hawk and will not let someone else tell her how to live her life. Both broken and hurting, their paths join and the embers of romance slowly grow into a flame.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first attempt at fan fiction. Please let me know what you think. The storyline is based off the TV series because I have not read all the books yet (sorry).

Chapter 1

Fuck. She was alive…and at Winterfell. Sandor Clegane gave a gentle kick to his black warhorse, encouraging more speed. If he had his own way, he would have ridden his horse into the ground to get to her faster. She was in danger. She might not know it but she was. That son of a whore, Littlefinger, was alone with her at Winterfell. He glanced to his side, seeing Davos riding alongside, his horse desperately trying to keep up with the larger warhorse. Davos had not complained much on their journey, his tired face had begun to look more haggard the farther they traveled. He must have felt the tension seeping from Sandor and understood that speed was key. In the distance Sandor thought he could see towers slowly materializing in the mist. Winterfell, the little bird had made it home. He thought of her as he had last seen her. Sansa, tears on her face and fear in her eyes. His little bird alone in the den of lions and vipers. He should have taken her with him during the Battle of the Blackwater but she had refused. He may be a vile monster, a rabid dog but to her…he would respect her wishes. He thought of what he would say to her, his reason for coming to her aid. Would she be happy to see him or turn him away like he deserved? How did she remember him, a vile brute in her room, bloody and running from a fight? He shoved the thought away, whatever she thought of him, he had to protect her from Littlefinger at least. 

Soon Sandor and Davos passed through the open gate. A few men approached but once they saw the Hound, hands went to their blades and a look of fear flittered in their eyes. Fucking cunts, he would kill them all if they tried to stop him. Luckily, Davos was more diplomatic.  
“Hello there. We were sent by Jon Snow, King of the North to help Lady Sansa.” Davos smiled easily while Sandor glared. “The Lady should have received a raven from her brother of our coming.”  
“Would my lords care to wait inside while the Lady is found?” One of the men asked, he looked hesitant to offer it. Sandor snorted, they should not let them in but the idea of a warm hearth and ale appealed to him.  
“That would be most kind.” Davos said, his kind eyes gleaming as he climbed down from his horse. “It has been a long ride and a bit of warmth would do these old bones some good.”  
Sandor did not say anything as he dismounted, glaring around. He could see some of the guards opening staring at him…and at his scar on the side of his head. Intimidation was never an attribute he lacked; he stood a head taller than any other man besides his brother, and a scowl typically rested on his face. His scar only added to the look of a warrior that you did not want to fuck with unless you were ready to meet your end. A young stable boy approached reluctantly. He lazily wondered how many boys he had killed during his life that were petrified like this one. The boy kept glancing between Sandor and the warhorse, clearly unsure which would hurt him first.  
Sandor thrust out a hand to give the boy the reins. “Watch yourself, he bites.”  
The boy gulped, taking the reins and keeping an eye on the horse, led it away to the stable. Another boy took Davos’ horse. The guard that had spoken to them turned on his heel and started towards the Great Hall. Davos glanced over and shrugged before following. Six other guards formed a looser perimeter around them. Sandor smiled to himself at the thought that it would take more than these six to stop him in a fight.  
“Hound!”  
Sandor stopped in his tracks, his mind momentarily in shock. He had never thought to hear that voice again. He turned to his left to see Arya Stark frozen staring at him. She looked well, still dressed as a boy instead of the lady she was. She still had that stupid sword on her hip, he was surprised it had not shattered yet. Quickly she walked over to him, her brown shoulder-length hair bouncing and a grin on her small, determined face.  
“How are you still alive?” Arya demanded, not unfriendly as she stood near him. He could see the guards openly gaping at their interaction.  
“I’m a hard fucker to kill. You should have finished me off when you had the chance.” He smirked, watching one of the guards’ eyes bulge at the comment. “How in seven hells are you still alive?”  
“It is hard to kill me now.” A ghostly smile spread across her face. “It is good to see you.”  
“Aye, am I still on your damn list?”  
She seemed to think about it a moment before responding. “You paid your debt.”  
“You might still try and stab me with that twig you call a sword.” He joked, more pleased that he would admit to seeing her. During their travels together, a piece of him had begun to care for her wellbeing. She was a pain in his ass but there had been a fire of pain and revenge that burned fiercely in her that he admired. It was reminiscent of his own need for revenge.  
“I would cut your throat instead.”  
He examined her more closely; she had grown up in the few years since he had seen her. She had the look of a killer in her eyes now. It seemed she had finally become what she had always wanted to be. He wondered how many eyes she had permanently closed since their last encounter. “You can fucking try.”  
She laughed then turned to face the Great Hall.  
He followed her gaze and felt his heart stop. Sansa Stark stood just outside the door, a polite, blank expression on her face. She had been a pretty girl in King’s Landing but now she had morphed into a beautiful woman. He could not help the lustful thoughts that wondered how her body would look differently in the thin Southern dresses compared to the thick, wool dress she wore now. Her long, red hair fluttered softly behind her with the cold breeze. She clasped her hands in front of her, a picture of a true highborn lady. Behind her stood Peytr Baelish with his usual smug look. Instinctively Sandor put his hand on his sword hilt.  
“You might want to keep your hand there.” Arya whispered so only he could hear. He felt a sigh of relief that at least one person in Winterfell did not trust Littlefinger.  
Peytr Baelish stepped forward and casually placed his hand on Sansa’s shoulder before whispering in her ear. The intimacy bothered Sandor but he could not think further on it; Sansa stepped forward, approaching her guests.  
“Welcome back to Winterfell, Ser Davos. You arrived much sooner than we anticipated.”  
“Thank you, my lady. We did not waste time getting here.” He gave a slight bow, an easy smile on his face.  
She turned her gaze to Sandor and he felt his heart stop again. Had her eyes always been so vividly blue? “Ser Clegane, we were most surprised to hear of your coming.”  
“I’m not a Ser.”  
She smiled faintly. “No, I suppose not. You both are most welcome. You must be tired from your journey. Rest and eat, we can talk before the evening meal.”  
She was still a pretty, little bird with her pretty words but there was something else now. A grimness hung in her eyes, a telling of hard times and their lasting affect on a person. He remembered trying to instill it in her that the world was full of monsters and killers, unlike the knights and maidens in her songs she preferred when they were in King’s Landing. Now he saw it, she understood. It was surprising that it pained him to see it in her eyes. She also spoke with a new authority that suited her. She no longer was a frightened girl but an strong woman. He watched her walk away, Littlefinger quickly scampering to her side, before he was directed towards where he would be staying. He noticed Arya still by his side and grumbled.  
“What, girl?”  
“You will tell us everything that happened?”  
“Yes, yes. Let a man bath and eat first.”  
“Was it nice to see my pretty sister?” Arya teased, still whispering.  
It was a good thing he had learned to master his facial expressions long ago, otherwise he would have jerked at the comment. Instead he playfully swatted the back of her head. “Shut up, brat. You are still a pain in the ass. Now scram before I hit you harder.”  
She laughed and quickly disappeared amongst the people returning to their duties.  
“I didn’t know you were friendly with the young lady Stark.” Davos commented, coming up beside him.  
“Don’t let her hear you call her that.”  
“When did you last see her?”  
Sandor snorted. “When she left me to fucking die on a hillside.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who is reading this story and has commented! You guys are the best! I have the story written out already so I will update it very regularly.

Sansa sat at the high table in the Great Hall, looking out over her bannermen eating. Her food sat in front of her untouched. Her stomach kept turning inside of her, the thought of eating made her want to be sick. The few lords present along with herself and Arya had heard Ser Davos and Sandor’s account before the evening meal. Jon was on his way to King’s Landing with one of the dead to convince Queen Cercei to join them for the Great War to come. It was a hard story to believe and she knew some of the lords silently refuted it. The look in Sandor’s eyes as he spoke of the army of the dead convinced her more than anything else. Thinking of him, her stomach flipped again. Scanning the men, without trying to draw too much attention, she saw him sitting at one of the far tables. The men around him had given him a wide berth except for Ser Davos beside him and Ser Hallwyn, master of the men-at-arms. As if her gaze summoned him, his eyes lifted from his companions to meet hers. They held for a moment before she hastily looked away. She was not fully sure how she felt about his coming. The thought of their past parting plagued her mind. How things would have been different if she had left with him instead of remaining at King’s Landing. Why was he here though? Why did he choose to come North instead of staying with Jon and the dragon queen? She wished Brienne was here so she could ask her thoughts. 

She rose, pleading exhaustion to those sitting at the high table. Littlefinger offered to walk her back to her room which she kindly declined. She did not want to give him another opportunity to kiss her. Quickly, she whispered in Arya’s ear then headed in the direction of her room. When she thought no one had possibly followed her, she took a side passage and made her way to the godswood.  
The place had become a sanctuary of sorts for her. Although she no longer prayed to the old gods, it still felt peaceful to be there. She could remember her father coming and sitting here often. She turned from that train of thought before the tears rose up and consumed her. One day she would truly mourn for everything that happened to her family, all the deaths and pain suffered but that was not today. Sitting under the heart tree with its white wood and red leaves, she massaged her temples. Listening to the lords and preparing for winter was draining but she tried not to show it. She was the Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, she did her duty but she could not wait until Jon returned so the weight of all the responsibilities would stop crushing her. 

 

The moon was beginning to rise over the castle walls when she finally heard footfalls. She rose and straightened her dress before clasping her hands in front of her, the picture of a lady. Arya came along the path with Sandor trudging and grumbling behind her. When he saw her, his eyes widened and he straightened slightly but continued his pace. She could not help but watch him, the moonlight highlighting the scars on the side of his face. Once she had used to look at him in disgust and horror because of his scars but no longer. She wondered when it had changed. His actions had always been kind to her even if his words were a bit harsh. He had saved her from being raped and from continued beatings at the hand of Joffery. Now when she saw him…she felt warm and safe. A quiet gasp escaped her mouth at the revelation but she pushed it aside.  
“Did anyone see you?” Sansa asked, looking at her little sister.  
Arya had stepped off the path and pulled out her sword, Needle, beginning her “dancing” as she explained it to Sansa. “No one saw me, I’m not sure about the stupid brute you wanted me to bring.”  
“Brat.” Sandor retorted but Sansa could see there was no malice in his tone or face. She was still unsure about their strange friendship but it was good to see Arya have someone she could finally joke and tease with.  
“We are supposed to not be on speaking terms.” Sansa reminded her sister. She did not like the distance it put between them, especially with only recently getting her sister back. It was a temporary evil until questions were answered.  
“Damn Littlefinger.” Arya spat, moving into a new position with Needle extended.  
Sansa agreed but kept the thought to herself. Turning her gaze to Sandor, she was surprised to see him watching Arya with what looked like a hint of pride possibly. She tucked the thought away to ponder later. “Ser Clegane, what do you see your role being here?”  
“I’m not a fucking Ser and I told your brother I would come to protect you.” He looked between them as if debating saying something. “Why don’t you have a guard with you?”  
Sansa bristled but tried to keep her voice calm and polite. “I am in my own home with guards along the walls. I am safe here.”  
“The fuck you are. You are the Lady of Winterfell and Cercei wants your fucking head on a spike. What’s to stop her from sending an assassin to kill you?”  
“I have a sworn shield already.”  
“Oh yeah? Where is he?”  
“Her name is Brienne and…”  
“Brienne of fucking Tarth?!” He exclaimed, turning to glare at Arya.  
Arya chuckled darkly. “I want to be her.”  
“Of course you do, brat.” He turned his brown eyes back to her. “Alright, where is your sworn shield? The cunt should be guarding you.”  
“I sent her to King’s Landing to represent the North at the meeting.”  
“Fuck’s sake! So you have no one guarding you?”  
His explosion caught her off guard but she wondered if it was truly anger or fear in his eyes as he said it.  
“He has a point.” Arya commented.  
Sansa rubbed her temples. The last thing she wanted to think about was assassins coming to Winterfell.  
“Let him be your sworn shield while Brienne is gone.” Sandor straightened at the comment but Arya continued, this time staring at him. “Would you do that? Take the oath and protect Sansa, be her man?”  
He paused a moment then pointedly looked at Sansa, eyes soft now. “Yes, if that is what the lady wants. I failed you once, I won’t do it again.”  
Sansa thought about the implication as her heart skipped a beat. For some reason she still trusted him, she knew he would not hurt her like he promised that night long ago. “You did not fail me…I should have gone with you.” She straightened, decision made. “You can be my sworn shield while Brienne is gone but I will not make you swear an oath to me. Both of us have made oaths we regretted and I will not force it again. Your word will suffice for me.”  
He seemed to hesitate then moved and dropped down on one knee in front of her. His head was almost level with hers as he stared into her eyes. “I give you my word. I will protect you as long as you will have me. This hound will die for you but never lie to you, that is my oath.”  
Unsure of the feelings that blossomed within her, Sansa reached out and found herself placing a hand on the burned side of his face. He looked up at her, shocked by her touch but unmoving. There was a tenderness in his brown eyes as they looked at each other and she knew he would gladly die for her. The realization hit her that she wanted him to be by her side. Quickly she pulled her hand away and took a small step back. “Tomorrow I will have your things moved to a more appropriate room for your new position.”  
He slowly nodded and stood up, towering over her. Their eyes met once again but the moment was broken by Arya.  
“Is this reunion done now so I can go eat?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor followed behind Sansa as she glided down the stone hallway towards the Great Hall. The turn of events still made his head spin but he was pleased with his new position. He had come to protect Sansa and he was now her sworn shield…even if it was temporary. Maybe the old gods that the Starks worshipped favored him, clearly the Seven from the South never had. They approached the side entrance where the household members would enter to walk directly to the high table. He could not see her face but she walked stiffly, hands clasped in front of her. She stopped in front of the door and he moved beside her to open it. He grabbed the handle but before he could yank it open she thrust her hand out and placed it against the door to keep it closed. He held perfectly still as he looked down on her. She took two long, slow breaths before looking up into his face.  
“You will protect me?” Panic was in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip.  
He wondered what was going on but chose not to ask. “Always. I’ll be right behind you.”  
She nodded then pulled her hand back and straightened. Cautiously now, he pulled the heavy wood door open, wondering what they were getting into. They walked to the high table and Sansa sat in the center chair, Bran to her left, already there. Sandor was unsure about the brother, there was something in his stoic demeanor and all-knowing eyes that unnerved him. He wondered where Arya was but kept his mouth shut. Sandor moved to stand behind her, glaring out over the hall, wondering who she needed protection from. The Great Hall was packed with lords and bannermen. Littlefinger moved from leaning against the wall nearby to come stand by Sansa’s side. Sandor refused to budge from his spot, forcing Littlefinger to lean forward awkwardly to see into Sansa’s face.  
“You are doing what is best, Sansa.” He tried to slide by Sandor to place a hand on her shoulder.  
“That is Lady Stark to you, cunt.” Sandor spat, glaring down with all the malice he could muster. If he was going to be her sworn shield, he needed to tell her some horrible things about Littlefinger. The intimacy he showed towards her made Sandor want to vomit, take Sansa and run. Or just gut the bastard and be done with him.  
“Thank you, Lord Baelish.” Sansa did not remove her eyes from staring ahead, apparently unaffected by his touch.  
Littlefinger slunk back to his spot leaning on the wall, a smug smile on his face. Sandor wondered what kind of accident he could arrange that ended with Littlefinger’s death. Not that he guessed it had to be an accident, most people would probably not mourn his death. He glanced down and saw Sansa’s hands in fists. Was she angry? He wished he had asked what was going on before they entered.  
“Bring her in.” Sansa commanded. Sandor watched in horror as Arya was led into the Great Hall with guards on either side of her. Needle was still on her hip and a small smile on her face. What the fuck was going on? Arya stopped a few paces from the high table. Silence filled the Great Hall. “You are being charged with treason and murder...” Dread filled Sandor. The two seemed perfectly fine the night before. Surely whatever the brat had done did not deserve this trial. For fuck’s sake, an army of dead bastards was coming to kill them all. They would need all the fighters they could get to have a sliver of a chance to defeat them. Before he could open his mouth to try and save Arya, Sansa continued. “…How do you respond….Lord Baelish?”  
Murmurs and whispers quickly replaced the silence with the abrupt change of the perpetrator. Sandor watched with unmasked shock and pleasure as Sansa began to recount all the horrors Littlefinger had committed that had her family killed and sent the seven kingdoms into war. He came before her, groveling and pleading to speak to her privately, that these charges were false, but she remained stoic and regal. Finally the moment of truth and certainty came.  
“I, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North sentence you, Lord Peytr Baelish to death.” Her voice rung loud as Arya stepped forward and effortlessly drew Needle across Littlefinger’s throat causing an shower of blood to stain his tunic and cloak and spurt onto the Hall’s floor. He quickly crumbled to the ground and the stain beneath him continued to grow.  
Gracefully Sansa rose and walked out, Sandor on her heels, a grim smile on his scarred face. The girls he had once known were gone, replaced with strong women who were not afraid to kill. The one had become a wolf with sharp teeth. The other…his little bird, she was a hawk now. He felt pride, they saw the world as it truly is and they had learned to protect themselves. 

A routine quickly began over the next few days that suited him. He would rise early and stand by Sansa’s door until she left to break her morning fast in the Great Hall. He would follow her there then leave her as she began meetings with lords and the maester to go train with the other men. Occasionally Arya would join him to watch. It surprised him how quickly the men accepted him into their ranks. He was not sure if it was because their Lady had chosen him to protect her or because he had seen the army of the dead. Either way, they accepted his advice when it came to training for the upcoming fight. Typically, he was left alone because people feared him but this newfound respect, he could get used to it. After, he would return to Sansa’s side as she moved about Winterfell being its Lady which meant more meetings about preparing for winter, prepping for Jon and the army’s arrival and the basic maintenance of the castle. At the end of the day his head hurt just listening. Somehow she handled it all with such grace and poise; she was born for this.  
In the evening he would retire into the Lord’s solar with Sansa and Arya. Sometimes Bran would join them, staring into the fire mutely. Sandor always felt uncomfortable when Bran was there so he tried his best to ignore him. Arya tried to teach him some dice game she learned while in the Free Cities. Sansa occasionally watched but typically she sewed, the perfect lady. Eventually they would all retire to their separate rooms to sleep. After the first day, Sandor was shocked to discover his room was just a few doors down from Sansa’s. When he asked, she said it made sense for her protector to be close by. The thought of her sleeping near him, her red hair laying across her sleeping form, her full lips slightly opened in the bliss of sleep. ‘I am a dog, she is a lady” he would mutter to himself constantly to try and regain his thoughts. His dreams, he could not control.  
It was his fifth day as her unassigned sworn shield when he retired to his room. Refugees from smaller nearby villages were beginning to trickle in and keeping the peace was not always easy. He had been called to break up a fight after the evening meal between two drunken men who could not even remember what they were fighting over. He had stopped by the solar after but Sansa and Arya both insisted he clean himself up and go to sleep. He wanted to protest but a sweet smile from Sansa kept his mouth shut. He laid in bed under the furs finally drifting to sleep when he heard a soft knock at his door.  
“The fuck someone want?” He grumbled to himself as he got up and opened it, ready to bark at the person on the other side.  
Sansa stood in her nightgown, a shawl across her shoulders. “May I come in for a moment?”  
He stepped back shocked that she was entering his room. He hoped he did not stutter something unintelligent.  
“Were you sleeping?”  
“No.” He closed the door watching her. Her hair was in a single long braid, hanging down her back. Her thin nightgown was hugging her curves lovingly. He felt blood rush south and quickly averted his gaze. He moved and sat on the bed, unsure what to do.  
“Are you pleased with your accommodations?”  
Why was she asking him this now? “Aye, it is far better than someone like me fucking deserves.”  
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are my protector until Brienne returns, you should be compensated accordingly and treated with the respect you deserve.”  
He snorted but kept watching her. She looked around his room, seeming to struggle with what to do next. “Is there something I can do for you, my lady?”  
She glanced at him shyly then averted her eyes, slowly twirling some jar in her hands. “Does you scar ever itch?”  
“My scar?”  
“Yes, the burn scar… mine does and…and I made a salve that helps. I think it is also healing the scar. I wondered if you wanted to try…” She mumbled off, clearly nervous.  
His cold heart melted at her thoughts of him. No one had shown him kindness like this since his mother and she had died when he was a child. “Sure.” He gruffly said, not fully trusting his voice. There was no way in all seven hells he was going to refuse her. He just hoped it did not smell like a cunt.  
“Hold still, please.” She commanded as she approached him. Opening the small jar, she held it in her hand and with the other dipped her fingers into it. Gentle as a feather, she touched the ugly scar along the side of his head. Sandor closed his eyes, enjoying her soft touch, trying desperately not to lean into the warmth of her hand. It was also for self-preservation he kept his eyes closed; she stood directly in front of him so his eyes were at the same height as her bosom. He tried not to think about it, to stop the swelling in his breeches. Focusing on her fingers running along the scars, feeling the ridges and grooves, he realized there was only one other person he had allowed to help heal his face and she was long dead…like their mother.  
He could tell she was done but her hand still rested on the side of his face as if she did not want to lose the connection. He opened his eyes to gaze at her then remembered something she had said. “Do you have a burn scar, my lady?”  
She jerked her hand back, a momentary look of fear and panic clouding her face. Regaining her composure, she placed the small closed jar beside him before grabbing the sleeve of her left arm and pulling it up. Along the upper part of her forearm was a long, thin scar then pressed over it was a large burn in the middle. Sandor gingerly took her arm and ran a large finger over it, knowing it would have been painful to receive.  
“Ramsey…he liked to watch me bleed…to hear me cry and scream.” She stopped and licked her lips. “This time he cut me too deeply and decided to cauterize it himself so I would not bleed out. He heated his knife in the fire and held it over me longer than necessary. He said after he liked…he liked the smell of my skin burning.”  
Sandor looked at her face. Her eyes were watery but no tears escaped. “The damn cunt will burn in all seven fucking hells for what he did to you.” He could not suppress the rage in his voice. How could any man harm Sansa like that and receive pleasure from it? It was good Ramsey was already dead for if Sandor had gotten his hands on him…  
“Am I so different now from your little bird?” A sad smile touched her trembling lips, the memories of another time and place long ago.  
“You will always be my little bird, but now you are also a hawk. And I am your dog.”  
“I prefer to be a wolf.” The smile finally glinted in her eyes. “And you will never be my dog. You are my protector. Like you have always been.” She pulled her sleeve down and he let go of her. “Would you like me to come back?”  
He nodded, still reeling in the intimacy of the moment. She turned and he followed her to the door to escort her out.  
“Good night, Clegane.”  
“Sandor.”  
A genuine smile lit up her face. “Good night, Sandor.”  
“Good night, little bird.”  
He closed the door behind her as she walked to her door. What the fuck just happened? Now that she was not in his room, he could smell the salve and realized it had lavender in it. Fucking seven hells, I am going to smell like a woman’s cunt. Yet he did not have the desire to wash the salve off. He laid down on his bed thinking of the interaction that just transpired. Normally it took him a long tine to relax enough to sleep but quickly his eyes closed and dreams found him with Sansa’s touch and smile blurring away his scars.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa sat at the high table breaking her morning fast, head down, not wanting to talk to anyone. Arya and her had gotten in an argument the night before after Bran and Sandor retired. She could tell Arya was not done fighting for her side and it made Sansa groan. She was trying her best to get along with Arya but sometimes she could be so annoying. Rising to leave, she mentally planned her day out. First she would meet with Maester Wolkin to see if he had any spare lavender for her. Next she wanted to meet with the Master Builder to see what could be done for the Old Keep to make it hospitable. As time passed, she knew more and more refugees would be arriving and she did not want them all to stay in Winter town, outside of the castle. Before she could step off the platform, Arya snuck around her and grabbed her hand.   
“Arya…what…?”  
“Shut up. We are not done talking.” Arya dragged her down the Great Hall.   
Sansa tried to make it appear she was following her overly, enthusiastic sister instead of being dragged against her will. Several face turned and watched them curiously as they passed but no one said anything. “Arya, we are not doing this here.” She hissed at Arya’s back for all the good it did her. Suddenly, she could see where Arya was dragging her and she gave a rough tug but it was too late. A few very unladylike words passed her lips silently.   
“Good Sers,” Arya exclaimed as she took a seat where Ser Davos, Sandor and Ser Hallwyn sat. The three watching with amusement and confusion. Arya continued her speech unabashed, “My dear sister and I are having a disagreement and we would like your opinions on the matter.”  
“Oh no, my lady, I learned early on to not get in the middle of an argument between two women. It is usually the man that gets in trouble.” Ser Davos joked, his eyes crinkling in mirth.   
“Spit it out, girl.” Sandor gruffly said, taking a swig of his ale. Sansa could not help a glance at him before she turned her gaze back to her traitorous sister.   
“I believe Sansa should be participating in training to fight. She stupidly disagrees.” By their reactions, that clearly was not the argument the three men were expecting. “I told her she did not have to train with a sword.” Arya finished, crossing her arms over her thin chest.  
“Maybe a bow and arrow, my lady?” Ser Hallwyn ran a hand over his graying beard, a thoughtful expression on his wrinkled face.   
“No, not that.” Sansa hissed out, more venomously than she intended. Memories of Ramsey flittered in her mind with the thought of her holding a bow and arrow. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “I do not see the point of me training when there are plenty of other things I should be doing to prepare for winter and the battle to come.”  
“You need to be able to defend yourself.” Arya lamented.   
“She does have a point…” Ser Hallwyn added, winning a grin from Arya.   
“That is why I have a sworn shield and guards!” She could feel herself losing the argument. They had a valid point but the idea of her picking up a weapon and learning to kill someone repulsed her. Yes, she had killed Ramsey but that was different…at least that was what she told herself.   
“I have something that may work.” Sandor stated, looking at Sansa with concern. “Brat, on the table in my room is a satchel. Go get it and don’t fucking open it.”  
Arya sped off without a word to receive the questionable weapon.  
“Come on.” Sandor got up and led her out; for a moment he placed his hand on her lower back to direct her but quickly withdrew it. The touch startled her but it surprised her more how she missed the warmth and feel of his hand there immediately after it vanished. They walked to the training yard silently; Sansa could hear Ser Davos following muttering to himself. What am I going to do? She did not want to fight, yet she trusted Sandor that he would not force her to do anything she did not want. As they walked, she wondered where this absolute trust came from. He had always been kind and gentle towards her. No, there was something in his eyes that was different than when he looked at others. Does he care for me? The thought made her intake her breath sharply. She could not deny the tension she had felt when she was in his room with her hand on his face. They had been so close, she could feel the heat radiating from his huge form. Truly, she had wanted to cup his face and trace his lips. He had always been her protector in her mind, even after all these years. She remembered him fondly. So much had happened for both of them, new pains and new scars, but something had rekindled within her when he called her his little bird again. Before she could think about it more they arrived at the training yard. A dozen or so men were already in the open square fighting, others hung back along the edge talking or sharpening weapons. Suddenly a wave of shyness overcame her.   
“Sandor, I can’t do this…not in front of them.” She desperately clung to his arm.   
He lifted an eyebrow. “It would be wise for you to know how to defend yourself. I may not always be around.”  
She nodded, biting her lip. She was a Stark, she could do this.   
“I will be right here, little bird.” He whispered as they moved to a corner of the open square. Men were openly stopping to watch them, curious why their lady was in the training yard. “What are you fucking cunts looking at?!” Sandor’s rough voice boomed out. “Get back to training or I’ll fucking bash your heads in until your own mother won’t fucking know you!”   
He wickedly winked at her when he turned his face back towards her. She gave him a small smile and mouthed ‘thank you’. The next several minutes he had her practice her stance. He walked around her making comments as he gently pushed her shoulders or back to try and throw her off balance. It worked initially until she found a solid stance then she did not have to catch herself quite as often. Finally Arya arrived with the plain leather satchel, a grin on her face seeing Sansa in the training yard. Sandor rummaged in it for a moment before pulling out a thin knife in its sheath. He tossed the satchel back to Arya.   
“Don’t steal anything or I’ll cut you, girl.”  
“You can try.” Arya teased before stepping away to stand with Ser Davos.   
“Here, how does it feel?” He handed her the knife. It was plain and simply made, and about the length of her hand.   
“Good, I guess.”  
He grunted then gently took her hand and showed her how to hold it properly. It could have been her imagination but it felt like he let their touch linger longer than necessary. His large, rough hand was warm around her soft one, a comfort. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like to actually hold his hand.   
“Practice holding it today. Tomorrow I will try and knock it out of your hand.”  
“Thank you, Sandor.”  
He chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet, we are just fucking starting. You may never want to see my ugly face again after.”  
“I doubt it.” Without thinking she reached out and placed her hand on his for a moment. Spinning around she walked away, knife still in her hand and cheeks hot. What had gotten into her?


	5. Chapter 5

The next week flew by quickly, a new pattern to Sandor’s day emerging. The mornings he would still escort Sansa to the Great Hall to eat, after they would go to the training yard. She was doing better than he expected although she would never compare to a natural like her sister. Once she agreed to train, her determination was commendable. Typically she left the yard sweaty and with a new bruise or two but a smile on her lips at her improvement. Sometimes Sandor would practice with her or allow someone else to step in so he could stand back and watch her form and give direction. Now that she was moving more and working up a sweat, she would throw off her cloak. Watching her move in her form fitting dresses, Sandor had to force himself to watch her form and not her womanly body. He was not the only one to notice and he wanted to growl at the men that lingered around, casting lustful glances her way. A few brave souls hung around and would throw out helpful comments or jokes. As the days passed, Sansa became more confident in herself and comfortable with the men watching. At the end of their session, she would always thank them for their critique and compliments. Sandor would continue in the training yard after she left, working with the men, drilling them and beating them until they learned to better defend themselves. He would rejoin her after he freshened up to stand by her side as she went about her day.   
Evenings had become what he looked forward to the most. After everyone retired, she would come into his room to put the salve on his face. Honestly, he was not sure if it was helping but he had come to yearn for her touch. They would converse about whatever came to mind. He soon found himself sharing pieces of his past that he had not shared with anyone else. They would speak of King’s Landing or stories from her childhood. As the days passed, he could not deny that his affection for her was growing deeper and stronger. It had been many years since he felt love, but he knew death and he was sure that she would be the death of him. Every time she smiled at him, his heart skipped a beat. When they touched, it left his skin hot and yearning for more. She had begun to infect his dreams. He wanted to run his fingers through her red hair, stare into her endless blue eyes and passionately kiss her sensual lips. He needed a whore.   
He stood waiting outside her door to take her to the Great Hall. He had gotten used to how late she slept in and no longer teased her about it. Her handmaiden stepped out of the room, a perplexed look on her round face.   
“Lady Sansa requests you take the day off. She is feeling unwell and wishes to rest.” The handmaiden kept her eyes downcast as she repeated her message.   
“Tell her I’ll come check on her later.” He grumbled before walking away concerned. She had been quieter yesterday, but he had not noticed anything disturbing. He ate in the Hall before finding himself some fresh boys to beat up in the training yard. Unsure what to do after, he went to see Ser Hallwyn. The master of the men at arms had become a friend, if he even had those. The older man had a clear mind and sharp tongue that Sandor enjoyed.   
“What do you want, Hound?” Ser Hallwyn called out to him, leaning against a wall, looking out over the horizon surrounding Winterfell. He looked at if he was born from the walls of Winterfell itself. His gray hair matched the color of the walls and he was solid, sturdy. He appeared to have eyes and ears in every crack of the outer walls. Sandor jokingly wondered if maybe the man could speak to the walls and what stories they would tell.   
“A bottomless mug of ale, a cheap whore and someone to kill.” He retorted coming to the man’s side.   
The old man laughed throatily. “Aye, same but don’t tell my wife. What do you want?”  
Sandor looked over the ramparts, eyeing the town below. “I am off duty today apparently. Her handmaiden said she was unwell.”  
“Huh…maybe it’s her time to dance with the moon.” He slowly commented. “So you looking for work, dog?”  
Sandor shrugged. “I fucking hate sitting around.”  
The man snorted before pondering for several moments. “Our outer defenses need to be reevaluated. I was planning on doing it myself but a fresh set of eyes would be good. Besides, your damn horse is a terror in the stables, he needs to be ridden soon.”  
“Not my fucking problem.”   
“Yeah, get a good look then tell me what you think. While you’re out too, get yourself a whore and give her a good thrust for me, eh?” The man cackled as he placed a hand on Sandor’s shoulder before walking away.   
Sandor retrieved his horse and headed out of Winterfell. The men nodded at him as he passed. He was not sure if he would ever get used to it. All his life he had inspired fear and he thought he thrived in it. Their respect made him uncomfortable but also made him want to be better for them and help them in whatever way he could. These were good, hard-working people, so very different than the cheats, liars and traitors he was used to in King’s Landing.   
He spent the next several hours riding around the exterior of Winterfell and the surrounding area. He decided to propose to Sansa that they go riding sometime, it felt good to be out on Stranger. After surveying and reporting to Ser Hallwyn, he went to the Hall to eat. Sansa was not at the high table with her siblings. He tried to not let his concern show as he listened to the men’s banter around him, occasionally throwing in an insult for good measure. Finally he got tired of hearing about which whore was better in Winter town and who could piss the farthest off the wall. He left without much of a farewell besides a grunt. He had never been known for his words anyway. The solar was going to be the first place he checked for her. It unnerved him that he had not seen her at all that day. When he arrived it was empty causing his concern to grow. Storming to Sansa’s room, he grabbed and pulled on the handle just as the door was opening and Arya stumbled out, quickly catching herself.   
“Is Sansa in there?”  
Arya shook her head, worry on her face. “You haven’t seen her either?”  
“Where in the seven hells is she?”  
“I ran into her handmaiden on the way here. She said Sansa has been shut in her room all day and earlier asked for a flagon of wine.   
“Since when does she fucking drink?”   
“Not that I’ve known her.”  
Anxiety and fear flooded his veins with the realization Sansa was missing. Had she been taken? Was she hurt? If something had happened to her, he would willingly carve his own heart out. He turned his attention to Arya. “Go look for her inside the Keep, check the kitchens, privie, anywhere. I’ll go outside. No one can know.”   
Arya nodded then took off down the hallway towards the kitchens, Needle bouncing on her hip. Sandor moved as soon as she did, bounding down the stairs faster than he had ever before. Where would she be? He thought back to King’s Landing, she often went to the walking gardens. He overheard her say she missed the godswood of home. It was as good of a place to start. He walked as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. Luckily with the sun’s setting, the shadows were already long and dark. He stepped in and headed directly for the heart tree, after a few nerve-wracking minutes of walking he saw her red hair under the heart tree. He hastened to her side where she laid crumpled against the white tree.   
“Sansa?... Little bird?”   
She raised her head and looked at him through blurry, red-rimmed eyes. Her hair had become disheveled and her bottom lip quivered. “Sandor?” She reached out a hand and touched his scarred cheek. Her hands felt like ice. He noticed then she was not wearing a cloak or anything to keep her warm in the frigid, northern air.   
“Sansa…seven hells…what are you doing?” He gently gathered her in his embrace, hoping to warm her up. As she shifted, the flagon shifted from beneath her. He grabbed it, shock filling him. “Fuck, girl, you drank the whole thing?”  
“…didn’t wanna ‘member…” She murmured, resting her head against his chest.   
Footfall sounded and Sandor turned to see Arya arrive. “I thought of the godswood. How is she?”  
“Drunk. Help me get her to her room.”  
“No!” Sansa yelled, flailing her arms and trying to escape Sandor. “I won’t go back! Please don’t take me there. He’ll find me! Please…” Fresh tears streamed down her face as she begged.   
“Shhh, little bird. I got you.” Sandor held her tightly, hoping no one heard her scream. It would not be good for one of the lords or bannermen to see her in this state.   
“Oh no.”  
Sandor looked up to see a look of horror on Arya’s face as she stared at them.   
“It’s today.”  
“What is?”  
“Her wedding…” She continued as Sandor stared at her confused. “A year ago today she married Ramsey Bolton.”  
A sinking feeling flooded his stomach as realization hit. No wonder she shut out the world today. He silently reprimanded himself for leaving her alone all day. He tightened his embrace, feeling her soft sobs and whimpers from her nightmares as she suddenly slipped into sleep in his arms.   
“Her room was their’s…the lord and lady’s.” Arya’s mind worked quickly. “Take her to your room. It was Jon’s old room, it shouldn’t have bad memories in there. Don’t grumble about her being there, I know she visits you after we leave the solar.”  
He quirked an eyebrow at her but chose not to comment. The girl had become too observant during her travels. “Keep the path clear. I’ll carry her.”  
“I don’t want too…it hurts…please stop.” Sansa moaned, clenching her eyes shut.   
“No one is fucking going to touch you, little bird. I’ve got you.” He picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Arya walked ahead to make sure no one could see them. Miraculously, they made it back to his room without incident. Maybe the old gods of the North were looking out for them, either due to Sansa’s state of being or because Sandor had no qualms drawing his sword to shed blood if necessary. When they made it, Sandor laid her on his bed and quickly covered her with the furs. He forced himself to tend to the dying fire in the hearth, anything to warm her up. Before he could ask Arya for help, he noticed she had vanished. He swore and barred his door. The brat would leave him in a situation like this. Sansa’s clothes were wet but he refused to undress her like this. The dress had been thin, to his surprise. Clearly in her drunken state she had not meant to go outside until the sudden urge hit her. He sat down heavily on one of the chairs in the room, running his hand over his ugly face. What the fuck was he going to do now? He removed his extra layers until he was just in his tunic and breeches. The glow of the fire on her sleeping face was enough to mesmerize him. She was beautiful. He decided to sleep in the chair instead of on the floor, knowing his back would protest in the morning. He kept gazing at her as he tried to settle himself somewhat comfortably. Sleep was just beginning to touch his eyelids when he heard her start thrashing and crying in her sleep.   
“Please…stop…stop!”  
He rose, startled and unsure how to best help her. He gingerly grabbed her shoulder to wake her but that only seemed to agitate her further.   
“Stop! Please stop!” Her crying reached a new level and he worried someone would hear her. “Please…kill me. Kill me!” She screamed. Unsettled by her cry, he grabbed her shoulders and gently shook her, calling out her name. Her eyes burst open in a haze, still in a dream state but beginning to sense reality. “Don’t let him find me.”  
“He’s dead, Sansa. You are safe.” He murmured, running a finger along her wet cheek.   
“Sandor?” Her eyes finally focused on him. Before he knew what to do next, comforting had never been his strong suit; she flung her arms out and wrapped them around him shaking with sobs. Her touch still felt like ice and he worried she would get sick if she did not warm up soon. Somehow he managed to get them both under the furs, his arms wrapped around her, her head snugly against his massive chest. He could not help it as his hand ran along her back and brushed her hair, he hoped it was comforting. Eventually she fell back asleep in his embrace, exhausted from her tears. She was pressed so tightly to him, he thought he could feel every inch of her. Unfortunately his body responded and he hoped she did not wake. What in seven hells did Ramsey do to her? He shuddered at the memory of her crying out for death and wondered if it would haunt him all his days. Sleep soon found him again and he dreamt of killing a lion before setting a dove free.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you again to all those who are reading and leaving comments! You guys are my heros! This is my first fanfiction piece and I was so nervous about sharing it but your encouragement is amazing! :)

Sansa walked beside Maester Wolkin, taking smaller steps to matched his shuffled pace. She was supposed to be listening to him but her mind continued to dwell on the warm body walking behind her, her protector and now her comforter. She had been woken by him early before the rest of the household rose and escorted to her room. Collapsing into her own bed, she had tried to piece together what actually happened the night before, memories and nightmares muddled together. Her dress had smelled of him, a dirty, manly musk that oddly enough comforted her into falling back asleep, feeling she was back in his arms. When she finally woke for the day, she felt more refreshed and invigorated than she had for years. She told herself it was because she had slept in a different room but deep down she truly knew why. It was because of whose arms were around her. Her handmaiden helped her ready for the day and she walked with Sandor down to the Great Hall as usual. They had shared a polite greeting and private smile but he did not mention the prior night. It would have to be her to brooch the subject. When she was sure no one was around, she stood and faced him, catching him off guard.  
“Did I dishonor…humiliate myself last night?” She was fearful of the answer but she needed to know. If any of the lords or bannermen had seen her drunk… she was not sure how to would repair her reputation. They would no longer respect her or her authority, even if she had been named Wardeness of the North.  
“No, little bird. Only Arya and I saw you.” There was a new touch of gentleness and sadness in his eyes. She wondered what she had said out loud during her nightmares.  
She reached a hand out and placed it on his scared face, looking into his kind, brown eyes. “Thank you Sandor for everything.”  
He placed his own large, rough hand over hers before gently turning his face to kiss her palm.  
They stood that way for a long moment before she took her hand back. She turned and continued walking, her palm warm where his lips had touched her skin. She had to repress the urge to rub her other hand over her warm palm. They had crossed a boundary, no longer were they just a sworn shield and a lady. There was undeniably more between them. Last night had been the tipping point, and now she could not deny the warmth that flooded her veins from his touch. 

“My apologies, say that again Maester Wolkin. I fear my mind was elsewhere.” Sansa acknowledged, realizing too late that the Maester had asked her something.  
“There have been more fights lately between the bannermen. I fear ill blood will happen soon if not addressed. A distraction might be good for the men or specific tacks to keep their mind and blades occupied.”  
“What kind of distraction?”  
He shook his head. “That is for my lady to decide.”  
“Has there been any word from Jon yet?”  
“No, my lady.”  
She nodded, unsure how to handle this. She wished for the millionth time Jon was here. He know how to handle the men and keep them occupied. Then she spied someone who may have an answer. “Ser Davos!”  
Upon hearing his name, the man ambled over to where they had stopped walking. “Yes, my lady? What can I do for you?”  
“I hear the men are still fighting amongst themselves. What would you say are good distractions for these men?”  
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but most of these men, all they know how to do is fight and fuck.” He looked slightly uncomfortable admitting that out loud…or at least saying it to her.  
Sansa glanced over at Sandor who had the hint of a smile on his face. “Would you agree?”  
“Aye, these cunts are easily bored without someone to kill.”  
She rubbed her temples, mulling it over in her mind. After an uncomfortably long silence, she finally spoke. “What if we had a tourney?”  
“A tourney, my lady?” The Maester’s wooly eyebrows shot up.  
“Yes, but anyone can participate and there will be several kinds of events. At the end, a feast to honor the winners.”  
The three seemed to contemplate the idea, none of them rebuking it which was a good sign.  
“What will the prizes be?” Ser Davos asked.  
“Let me think on that. Last I heard there were Players south of us. Send someone to find them for our entertainment.”  
“Yes, my lady.” The Maester bowed before shuffling away.  
“And me, my lady?” Ser Davos asked, watching her with a new respect in his eyes.  
“Ride south with a few men to get three of the most beautiful whores you can find and bring them back. Tell them I will pay them very well for their time.”  
Ser Davos seemed taken aback but nodded and left for his own mission.  
“Think that will be enough?”  
Sandor chuckled. “That should satisfy those bastards for a while.”  
She could only hope so. The Great War was coming with an army of the dead and she was having to create amusement for the men. Seven hells, I am taking care of violent children, not men.

That evening Sansa entered Sandor’s room as had become their nightly ritual. Sandor already sat on the edge of his bed, as if he had been waiting for her, hands clasped between his knees. Going over, she added another log and stoked the fire in the small hearth so they would have more light.  
“What is on your mind, little bird? Your eyebrows are furrowed.” He gently asked, watching her.  
She rose and gave him a half smile, not sure it made its way to her eyes. “I’m thinking about the tourney.” Opening her jar, she began to apply it to his scar, still talking. “Do you really think it’s a good idea? We have never had one in Winterfell before. Some of the lords seemed hesitant, that it’s a Southern custom but…I don’t know what else to do.”  
He looked up at her, his brown eyes engaging. “It’s a good distraction for the men and gives them something to look forward too, besides fighting a dead fucking army.”  
A genuine smile touched her lips as he teased her. Normally she would linger for a few minutes before returning to her own room but tonight, she was not ready to return to solidarity. She sat down next to him on his bed, fiddling with her shawl. “Would you be willing to help plan for it? You have more experience than anyone here at tourneys.”  
He chuckled. “Aye, I do. Not sure if that’s something to be proud of.”  
“You should be proud. You are undoubtably one of the best warriors in Westeros.”  
“Most people are too afraid to fight me.”  
A smile on her face, she scooted back on his bed to lean against the wall, tucking her legs beside her. “I remember watching you at my first tourney, watching you fight. It was mesmerizing, you looked so strong and powerful.” She blushed realizing what she had said but too late.  
He leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms across his chest smugly. An unabashed smile lit his face as her blush deepened. “You think so, my lady?”  
She looked down, suddenly very interested in the stitching of her shawl. “Everyone should think so. You saved Ser Loras.”  
“Cunt. He gave you a flower.”  
Sansa thought about how innocent she had been back then. How her stomach had turned in knots as Ser Loras had handed her the flower and how handsome she had thought he was. “Yes, my father disapproved.” The thought of her father still sent a sliver of pain through her heart. Although it had been years since his death, she wondered if that pain would every truly heal. Her thoughts must have reflected on her face for Sandor reached his hand over and placed it on hers. No words needed to be spoken, the gestured conveyed his sorrow for her loss and his role in it. She placed her hand over his then began to absentmindedly trace the scars on his large hand and his knuckles with her thumb.  
“Do you want to fight in the tourney?”  
He snorted but did not remove his hand. “No, I am finished with those. I will be content to stand beside you and bet on other men.”  
She nodded, silently pleased. Although it would have been pleasing to watch him fight, she would have lamented losing her companion even if for a day. She had grown fond of his presence beside her. She felt more safe than anytime since leaving Winterfell for King’s Landing so many years ago. “Do you miss the killing?”  
He raised an eyebrow.  
“You once told me that killing is the sweetest thing.”  
He rubbed his other hand over his short beard, momentarily lost in thought. “I have killed more people than I can count. There is nothing like the feeling of swinging your blade against another and watching the life leave their eyes. It’s all I have even been good at.”  
She squeezed his hand, still sandwiched in between hers. “You have never been just a brute killer. You have been a protector…for both me and Arya. We will always be in your debt.”  
“I doubt Arya sees it that way.” He smirked, joking. “It took me dying for her to not want to cut my fucking head off.”  
“Well I am very glad she did not.” She tried to stifle a yawn but it threatened to split her face open.  
“You should go to sleep.” Sandor withdrew his hand and immediately Sansa felt a loss without the warmth and contact. She knew she ought to go back to her room but she could not work up the willpower to leave.  
“Just a bit longer, please?” She moved and laid down at the foot of his bed, slightly curled, an arm under her head for a pillow. She knew it was childish of her but a sense of peace and relaxation had sunk into her muscles; she was not ready to lose that by returning to her room.  
He laughed at her but pushed himself deeper into the bed, settling down and getting comfortable. Mirth filled his eyes as he watched her. “What should we talk about, little bird?”  
“Tell me about the pups you raised at your home.”  
Hesitantly he began talking, focusing more on the dogs than his family. She knew there were painful memories but she was curious to learn more about him. As he spoke she watched him and marveled at how she had never noticed before. He was actually quite handsome if one did not see the marring scar. She wondered if his life would have been different, if he would have married by now if he had remained unblemished. Before she realized it, her eyes sealed shut and she peacefully drifted to a sweet sleep that blessed her dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

Even with the ever-looming threat of the Night King and his army of the dead making their way to the Wall; the next couple weeks were some of the happiest Sandor had ever had in his ugly, painful life. Somehow he was drawn into helping plan and prep for the tourney which was quickly approaching. It had been decided that there would be three large competitions- archery, horseback riding and single-combat, with a specific number of contestants from the different castles representing their lords and banners would participate. It was supposed to take place over two days with archery and horseback the first followed by single-combat and the feast to end the celebration. Players had been found and quickly brought to Winterfell to perform their shows and tricks in between the competitions for the crowd’s amusement. As the days drew closer, the air buzzed with excitement as plans were finalized and more people trickled into Winterfell and the surrounding area.   
After much persuasion, Sandor convinced Sansa to go riding with him which to his joy, she decided to make a routine of. He would ride his black warhorse, Stranger, while she rode her lovely white mare. He loved watching her ride, he would have sworn she was a reincarnation of one of the old goddesses with her flaming hair dancing about her as she rode and her ivory skin illuminated in the sunlight. Occasionally Ser Hallwyn or Ser Davos would ride with them but typically Arya joined them. A few guards would accompany them but ride at a slight distance to provide some privacy unless invited forward to join the conversation. It was during these rides that Sandor learned about what the past several years had done to Sansa and Arya.   
Arya talked about her time journeying with Yoren then Harrenhal and her time in Braavos learning to be an assassin with the Faceless Men. Sandor sat in awe as she spun her tale, an unbelievable story except he knew she was telling the truth. A few time she paused before saying something and glossed over part of her story. He wondered if she censored her story for Sansa’s sake or to block out some of her own memories. Although Arya was a pain in his ass, too smart and observant for her own good, he realized how he had missed her wit and fire she carried within her. During the time they had spent traveling Westeros and even now, he realized he cared for her as a friend or little sister. She got under his skin often but he could quickly forgive her with a quick retort and a sharp remark back from her as they laughed at one another.   
He shared bits of his time after Arya left him for dead; Sansa would still look mortified and glare at her sister every time he mentioned that. He spoke of his time with the septon who saved his life and then sought revenge on the man’s murderers. Then how he connected with the Brotherhood without Banners and went North to help Jon Snow retrieve one of the dead to show Cercei.   
Sansa spoke of her time in King’s Landing after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, the continued harassment and pain inflicted by Joffrey. When she spoke of her forced marriage to Tyrion Lannister, Sandor wanted to beat someone bloody but she quickly added that they never consummated the marriage and he considered forgiving the Imp. She talked of her travels with Littlefinger and her time in the Vale with her aunt and cousin. Littlefinger’s treachery did not come as a shock to Sandor but with each telling of her time, he wished he had dragged her kicking and screaming from King’s Landing with him instead of leaving her utterly alone to be abused and manipulated. Her time with the Boltons was never brought up and no one pushed for it. Sandor could guess enough from hearing her cries and screams during nightmares that made him want to tear his own heart out.   
As they made their way back to Winterfell, Sansa made sure to walk through the surrounding camps, meeting and greeting people, both men at arms and refugees alike. They warmly accepted her, devotion in their eyes. She always had a kind word and touch for anyone she came in contact with. Sandor was never more than three steps behind her, eyes constantly scanning for threats. He enjoyed watching her interact and be the Lady of Winterfell, a position she thrived in.   
At night she was just Sansa and those were the times he looked forward to most during the day, when he had her all to himself. She continued to come to his room to put the salve on the side of his face. Now though, she would sit and curl up on the end of his bed and they would talk. He was not positive if she faked it, but majority of the time she would fall asleep there. He would cover her with his furs then go to sleep himself, trying not to touch her. When she was there, he always slept more peacefully and deeply. He tried to tell himself it was because she was close and he could protect her better but he knew it was because of her presence. Those next morning she was always in a better mood and more rested, the dark circles under her eyes abating as time passed. She still had occasional nightmares but one night she confessed they were not as frequent or terrorizing when she was in his room. 

A few days before the tourney, they received a raven from Jon saying he hoped to be there within a fortnight with the dragon queen and her army. With that announcement, Sansa seemed to be dragged and bombarded by people with questions and concerns from the moment she stepped out of her room until the evenings when Sandor practically growled at them to leave her in peace or he would use violence. It boggled his mind that she still, with exhaustion from the day on her face, would sneak into his room at night. He was just a dog from a minor house, he had no real lands or titles, nothing to offer her but companionship. Sometimes his mind would wander to what it would feel like to hold her hand again, to kiss her, to make love but he thrust the thoughts away before he had time to dwell on it. It would never happen. She was the Lady of Winterfell and she was meant to marry a great lord. He would never marry, no one would look at his ugly face and see a proper suitor. He had resigned himself to that long ago, only whores and their desire for gold would be the love he received. Yet the more time he spent with Sansa, the more he wished it was different; that he could be one of the grand knights from her songs she loved so long ago. But he was not and never would be. He was a killer, a murderer and he would protect her with his dying breath. She deserved more. She deserved happiness. She deserved peace.   
Ser Davos arrived back with the three young, pretty whores for the winners of the tourney. Their arrival created a buzz but all of Winterfell was like an overturned bee hive so it only made a splash in the chaos. Sansa had the women stay in their own rooms in the Great Keep with guards. They wore ladylike dresses and paraded around; Sandor approved of her scheme, show the men something to fight for, get their cocks hard and they would only focus on that and not fighting one another. Secretly he was looking forward to the tourney, watching his men fight and evaluating their progress in his training. For the most part there was no longer fear on their faces when they saw him, he had transformed from a brutish killer to an leader. He could walk up to any group of the men and be involved in their discussion or plan-making and he knew his words would be listened too and regarded with wisdom. It was a strange feeling but he had grown used to it and liked it. One of the men had even joked that he should have been born Northern for he fit in well. A swell of pride had filled Sandor’s chest but he played it off saying his huge cock would have frozen off already generating a few laughs. 

That evening he had relaxed in the lord’s solar with Sansa, Arya and Bran. Arya and him were playing a stupid lying game, one would tell a story and the other would have to guess which parts were lies. He loathed this game but a thrill went through him when Sansa and Arya would laugh when the truth was revealed. Sansa refused to play, content with her needlepoint. Bran just stared into the fire, silent and unmoving as the statues in the crypts below Winterfell. The boy still unnerved Sandor, with his knowing, piercing gaze he felt as if the boy would see right through him. The Three-Eyes fucking Raven, or whatever he was supposed to be. Sansa and Arya seemed to tolerate him better but he could tell even they did not always know what to do with him.   
Eventually they all retired to their rooms. Sandor sat on the edge of the bed, waiting until Sansa silently slipped in. He could not help the big, dumb grin that found itself on his face nor the skipped heartbeat when she smiled back. Gods, she was beautiful. She talked of the impeding tourney as she placed the salve on his face. He kept silent but would give his opinion or advice when asked, just enjoying her voice and soft touch. When done he leaned back against the headboard, waiting to see what topic she chose tonight.   
She tugged on her shawl, hanging off her shoulder, biting her bottom lip. Glancing at him, she opened her mouth to say something then closed it to look away shyly.   
Subconsciously he sat up a little straighter, intrigued. She was no longer the timid, polite girl he knew in King’s Landing. She spoke what was on her mind and held her head high. Except in this moment. “Spit it out, little bird.”  
“Can…I hear…” She stopped and licked her lips before sitting up straight and staring at him. “I heard some of the men talking…about a scar on your back…”  
“Aye.”  
“Can I see it?”  
“Are you asking me to undress, my lady?” He could not help but tease her. He pretended to be shocked. “What would your Septa say?”  
The blush that spread across her cheeks was almost as red as her hair but she silently nodded, biting her lip.   
He chuckled but obeyed, scooting forward to the middle of the bed before pulling his tunic over his head. He dropped the tunic on the ground, realizing a woman had never voluntarily asked him to remove his clothing unless she was being paid for a service. He was startled when Sansa crawled over to him and knelt behind him. A hardness filled his breeches that he desperately hoped she would not notice. Gently her delicate fingers traced what he assumed was the scar in question. Her fingers started at the middle of his upper back and slowly made their way to his right hip. Only their breathing was heard as she began to trace his other various scars along his back. He closed his eyes, her touch healing his tortured body. No one had been so gentle to him besides his mother. He remained frozen as she slide around him and continued her exploration, gently touching his scars along his right shoulder and then his chest and stomach. With each touch a fire lit inside him and he hoped she never stopped. A few strands of hair was loose around her face, having fallen out of her single braid. Her shawl no longer covered her shoulders and one peeked out from under her nightgown begging to be kissed. Her full lips were slightly parted as she watched her hand glide along his chiseled torso. Whatever self-control he had around her was slowly ebbing away the longer she touched him. His body began to ache for her, yearning to feel her against him. He sat unmoving, barely breathing yet his heart and cock threatened to explode with desire. She looked up and began to trace the grooves and ridges along the side of his scarred head. Slowly as if being drawn to him, she rose onto her knees, cupping his face and pressed her lips to his scar. It was gentle and sweet, a light brushing of her lips upon something hideous. Leaning back slightly, she looked into his eyes, her blue eyes vivid and dilated with desire. Without his permission, his hands found themselves cupping her face and pressing his lips delicately against hers. After a brief moment he leaned back and pulled his hands away, ashamed of his actions.   
“I…my apologies, my lady.”  
“Sandor.” She tipped his face back up to look into her eyes, searching his soul. “I have been married twice but never loved. Show me how you would love me… how love is supposed to feel.” A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.   
He reached out and wiped it away with his thumb before slipping his hand behind her long neck. Their lips met again with a hesitation but she opened her mouth and a new fire raged between them. He pulled her against him, keeping one hand behind her neck to deepen the kiss and allowed his other hand to explore her body. Her hands were tangled in his hair, pining his mouth to hers. Their breathing quickly became ragged as passion coursed through their veins and their lips remained intertwined.   
He pulled back slightly, his mind reeling. “Are you sure, little bird?” She was too precious, to fragile to be broken by a man again. He wanted her to be sure before anything further happened.  
Her eyes never leaving his, she began to tug on the strings holding her dress on her body before slowly pulling it over her head. Her ivory skin glowed in the firelight and he could have sworn she was a goddess rebirthed. His hands remained on her hips, his eyes lustfully roamed her body, taking in every curve and feminine perfection. Fine scars covered her body as if someone had used her as a sharpening blade. Later he would allow himself to be angry at the bastard Ramsey for hurting her but now. Now he wanted to drink in every part of her. She moved her hand to try and hide one of the deeper scars along her stomach but he pushed her hand away.   
“You are the most beautiful woman, Sansa.” He said, staring into her eyes.   
With a cry, she flung herself at him and they fell backwards on the bed, lips and hands searching each other. He turned so she was beneath him as he hastily unlaced his breeches. He yanked them off before using his hands and mouth to fondle her breasts, loving the sounds of her moans and gasps. His hands ran along her body, caressing her hips and thighs before touching her sex. A deeper moan escaped from her lips as she threw her head back to enjoy the sensations. Between watching her writhe from pleasure underneath him and having the taste of her on this lips and tongue, he never wanted to leave the moment. She owned him now, body and soul; and damn anyone to all seven hells if they tried to take this away from him. He would only ever want her, he would only ever crave her. No woman could ever come close to the goddess before him. He was hers forevermore.   
“Sandor, I need you now.” She whined, clawing at his back.   
He was only too happy to oblige. Moving to straddle her, he went cautiously knowing he was a large man and not wanting to hurt her. They both reveled in pleasure and ecstasy as they made love, a feeling neither have truly experienced before. After the waves of sensation drifted away, he held her in his arms, face pressed against her hair, trying to breath her in as much as possible. She had her face pressed against his chest, hands tracing his muscles and playing with his chest hair.   
“I love you.” She whispered, snuggling closer.   
“I have always loved you, little bird.” He kissed the top of her head and tightened his hold on her. They drifted to sleep entwined in one another and their dreams became muddled. Both finding a new peace together and a healing balm for their broken souls.


	8. Chapter 8

The day of the tourney finally arrived with sunshine and a light snowfall. Excitement and revelry filled the air, everyone enthralled with the idea of entertainment and distraction from their impending doom. An open field near Winterfell had been cleared and set up to be the stage of the spectacles. A raised platform had been built with chairs for the lords to have a better view. Benches ran along the sides for the field for anyone else.   
Sansa sat on the high platform, Arya to her left and Sandor to her right; Bran, not surprisingly, chose not to attend. She could not help the occasional memories that drifted across her mind, reminiscing of the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing. Now she was the Lady of Winterfell, hosting a tourney to take everyone’s mind off the approaching army of the dead. She smiled, shaking her head slightly at the thought. If someone had told her of this moment years ago she would have thought them madder than Mad King Aerys. Casually a warm pressure touched her lower back for a few moments before vanishing. It took all her willpower for a blush not to appear on her cheeks, the touch a faint mention of what the past few nights had entailed. Her nights had been more active than they used to be but laying in Sandor’s arms, she slept more soundly than she had ever before. They never talked about what the future had in store for them, choosing to enjoy the moments they had together. Arya had made a smug comment that morning as they were breaking their morning fast about how she seemed happier lately. Sansa tried to brush it off but Arya kept smirking at her. She wondered how much Arya knew or guessed, she was so observant nowadays. Arya then had patted her hand and said she was glad to see her sister smile again then they changed the topic. 

The archery competition was first with a bannerman from House Umber winning. The Players performed a drama after to provide a break and for people to find food. The horseback competition was next but instead of jousting, it was decided the competitors would have to use their lance to retrieve rings hanging from various heights and distances across the field. Although a few complaints had arisen with the change, it was reminded most people who jousted were knights, which they had very few of, and they needed the men to remain somewhat able to fight when the time came. This was the event Sansa preferred to watch for she had great respect for the riding who could control their horses so easily. She hoped one day to be that good but she knew she would have to devote a lot more time to riding to accomplish that. A bannerman of House Glover won, his chestnut stallion practically dancing across the field. 

The next day was the single combat competition with a huge turn-out of competitors and spectators. It was held tournament style with winners moving up to the next round and the losers automatically disqualified. Training swords, with their blunted edges, were used in place of the competitors usual “live” swords. They wanted to reduce the risk of death and serious injury with the impending war, they would need all the able-bodied fighters they could find. Sansa did not enjoy watching the single combat as much, men beating upon one another was not her ideal of entertainment. Sandor and Arya beside her were thoroughly enjoying it and whispering bets and insults to one another. Their interactions made Sansa smile along with the occasional brushing touch between her and Sandor.   
She was in love. After everything she had been through, she never thought she would find someone that she could love nor truly loved her back, even with her scars and nightmares. It still made her mind giddy with the revelation. Solemnly she wondered how long she had to enjoy this before the war tore them apart. Finally, in the early evening, a champion was crowned being a bannermen of House Mormont. Sansa graciously clapped and gave a brief smile and nod to Lady Lyanna Mormont to acknowledge her man. Surprisingly she was tired but knew she could not sneak away and retire until the feast was well underway. She decided she would encourage Sandor to stay and enjoy the festivities, meaning he could get drunk. She would tell him she would sleep in her room and if he argued against that, she could stay with her sister. Arya would mingle for a time but Sansa noticed she no longer thrived in the boisterous celebrations like she had when they were young. She guessed Arya had not shared everything that happened while they were separated and worried if it would come back to haunt her. 

Sansa stood at the high table and clapped her hands, signaling the banquet to begin. Servants and cooks rushed the tables in the Great Hall with platters, bowls and plates of delicious food. Only the lords, winners and important bannermen attended the banquet in the Great Hall. Everyone else enjoyed the festivities outside where food and ale was supplied to them. Not very hungry, Sansa slipped away from the high table to wander among the lords and congratulate the winners as it was expected of he. She held a cup of wine in her hand so she could politely decline the offer of others. Scanning around for one face in particular, she saw Sandor off to the side talking with Ser Hallwyn, Ser Davos and another man she did not recognize. He caught her eye and gave the briefest of smiles before turning his focus back to the men. She wandered and talked, exchanging pleasantries with the men and women attending before she removed herself and stepped into a lonely hallway for a breather. She took a sip of her wine, pleased with the accomplishment of the tourney and knowing tomorrow they would again have to face the impending doom and finalize preparations for Jon’s arrival.   
“My lady.”  
Sansa looked up from her cup, so lost in thought she had not noticed the man approach. He seemed to be around her age with alert eyes, a stubbly beard and a slightly crooked nose. Her training kicking in, she bowed her head to acknowledge him before speaking. “My apologies, my mind was elsewhere.”  
“It is most understandable, I am sure you have much on your mind.” He gave a flashy grin but continued to stand near her, watching.   
“I’m sorry but can you remind me who you are? I have met so many people tonight.”  
He chuckled. “Of course, my lady.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it brashly. “I am Duncan of House Whitehall.”  
“A pleasure.” She murmured as she tugged her hand away. Something felt wrong. All her instincts told her to head back to the feast but he stood blocking her path.   
“I am an old friend of Ramsey Bolton’s, we grew up together.”  
A sinking feeling hit her stomach but she tried to keep her face calm. She needed to leave now.   
“Is it true that you fed him to his dogs?”  
She gently nodded, her body and mind screaming at her to run. No good would come from this conversation. Pieces of memories flittered across her mind.   
“I do wish I had seen that. We were friend but he really was the worst kind of bastard.” He leered at her now as he continued. “I saw him for a time before he and your bastard brother fought. He would not shut up about how he needed you back, what he wanted to do to you.” He shuddered slightly. “It is best he never reclaimed you. But he did talk about how good it felt to fuck you and hear you cry out. Did he really have the Greyjoy pet watch on your wedding night? He was never one for romance, huh?”  
Sansa could feel the panic rising in her chest. Her hands were shaking, her breathing was rapid and she was sure her eyes looked like two full moons. She had to get away from him.   
He seemed to be enjoying watching the fear rake through her body. “I wonder now that you are unwed if I could have a taste.” He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the wall. The wine cup she held clattered to the floor but she paid it no mind as her back hit the wall and a gasp escaped her lips. “Listening to Ramsey talk about you, I’ll admit I was jealous. I wanted to see if what he said about you was true.” His hand ran south to cup one of her breasts through her dress.   
As if his touch awakened her, she pulled a hand back and slapped him. “Release me.”  
He let go and put his hand on his cheek, a look of surprise and arousal on his face. “Is that how we are going to play?”  
She managed to step around him but before she could go further, he roughly grabbed her hips and slammed her against the wall again. She tried to hit and scratch him but he pinned her and held her hands. He was bigger and stronger than her and by the old gods she wished she had listened to Sandor and kept a knife on her. Before his exploration of her traveled too far, a roar sounded in the hallway that screamed of the yearn for blood and vengeance. Duncan looked behind him at the sound then immediately dropped Sansa, trying to retrieve his sword at his hip. He was too slow for the Hound that came to sink its teeth into its prey. Sandor ran and hit the smaller man so hard he fell back to the wall and slumped down dazed. He punch Duncan again, on the side of his face which surely would leave a patchwork of bruise tomorrow…if he lived that long. Sansa had never seen the warrior side of Sandor before. His countenance transformed for her kind protector to a blood-thirsty warrior which was the last thing many men had seen before their death. His mouth was in a snarl, brows furrowed and eyes blazing in righteous fury. It terrified her.   
“Sandor…” Sansa felt like she was going to collapse. She reached her hands out, the onslaught of memories and emotions wreaking havoc on her body. Before she lost all balance, Sandor took her hands and pulled her into his strong embrace. She buried her head into his chest as he laid his head on her. She realized she was shaking like a leaf but being in his arms helped her to focus on slowing her breathing.   
A dark, humorless chuckle came from the ground. Sansa stupidly peeked. Duncan sat on the ground, blood oozing down the side of his face but he had a smug look plastered on his lips. He opened his mouth to say something but suddenly Needle came into view, touching the vile man’s throat.   
“Choose your next words carefully. I know a hundred way to make you die a slow, painful death.” Arya’s eyes burned black as she held Needle to the man’s throat. It almost seemed she wanted Needle to taste his blood, to revel in his life slipping away amongst screams.   
“He’s not worth it, Arya.” Sansa found herself saying, watching her sister. She did not want more blood on her sister’s hands than necessary.   
“You should let me kill him.” Arya retorted, sheathing Needle.  
“Another time.” Sansa wistfully said. “Sandor, take me to your room please.”  
“Aye, little bird.” He held on tightly to her, seeming afraid if he loosened his grip she would fall apart. He may not have been wrong. Sansa could barely hear Arya’s soft footfalls following them. Exhaustion washed over her. Will I ever be free of Ramsey? Or will he always haunt me in some way?   
Once back to Sandor’s room, she stripped down to her small clothes and crawled under the furs, not caring what Sandor and Arya thought. She just needed to shut out the world for a time. Arya must have taken her leave because Sandor slipped into bed next to her, wearing only his breeches. He held her as she sobbed and later when the nightmares terrorized her sleep. Awakening briefly once she thought she was alone but fell back asleep quickly. Later she woke up again to the scent of blood but Sandor just pulled her body close to his and stroked her hair till sleep took her away.   
The next morning the body of Duncan of House Whitehall was found flayed, laying on his cot.


	9. Chapter 9

The day of Jon Snow and the dragon queen’s arrival finally came with all the heralding and pomp Sandor came to expect. The army could be seen approaching from miles away giving plenty of warning and time for everyone to run around like decapitated chickens. Sandor stood just slightly behind Sansa, eyes glaring over the growing crowd. They stood in the courtyard, facing the gate with the other lords to their sides. Arya bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, her excitement oozing out of her. Sansa stood perfectly still, hands lightly clasped in front of her. She had admitted to Sandor the prior night as they laid in his bed how glad she was for Jon’s return but apprehensive to meet Queen Danerys Targaryen. He had tried to tell her what he could of the dragon queen but he had not spent much time with her, his focus had been on staying alive then getting to Sansa. 

A deafening cry sounded above them followed by a monstrous shadows. Everyone cried out and ducked or fell on their face calling on the old gods and the new, besides Sandor and Ser Davos. The roar of a dragon was not new to them, but Sandor doubted they would ever get used to it. Anticipation built for the arrival while the two dragons flew above them until finally settling themselves somewhere outside of Winterfell. Finally the procession came forth with Jon Snow, King of the North and Queen Danerys Stormborn of House Targaryen in the lead. Jon got off his horse then stepped around and offered a hand to help Queen Danerys get down. Sandor thought their touch lingered a moment longer than necessary; he wondered what had happened since he left them. Before they walked more than a few paces, Arya gave up waiting and raced to Jon. Giving into his own shameless joy, Jon ran to Arya and wrapped his arms tightly around her after they collided in the midst of the courtyard. Sandor glanced down and saw a sad smile on Sansa’s face. He wished he could hold her hand, lend her his strength but now was not the time or place. Everyone watched the blissful reunion until someone gave a deliberate cough, reminding the siblings that others were around and waiting. Jon kept his arm around Arya, huge grins on both of their faces, as they walked towards Sansa with the dragon queen in his wake.   
“Welcome home, your grace.” Sansa politely curtsied.   
“Thank you, Sansa and please don’t call me that. We are family.” Jon gave her a brief embrace before stepping back and motioning to the silver-haired woman beside him. “Sansa, Arya, this is Queen Danerys Targaryen, the true ruler of the seven kingdoms.”   
“Your grace, it is an honor to offer you our home. You are most welcome at Winterfell.” Sansa curtsied again, ever the perfect lady.   
Sandor looked out over the procession not caring about the polite formalities, he would let his little bird deal with those. Most of the army had stayed outside the walls of Winterfell but he could see representation of those amongst it: the savage Dothraki on their wild horses with strange markings, eyes warily watching the crowd, and the cockless Unsullied warriors who stood perfectly still as if made of stone. He furrowed his brows and clenched his fists when he saw Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, receiving help getting off his horse then waddle over to the regents. Although he was not the worst of the Lannisters, Sandor would never trust him. He had Lion’s blood in him. He had heard a rumor that the Imp was the Queen’s Hand but he had not truly believed it until now. Then it flashed through his mind that this cunt of a man had been married to his beautiful little bird and that made him grind his teeth.   
“Now with the pleasantries over, can we move this reunion inside before my feet freeze off?” The Imp blatantly stated, coming to stand by his queen. Turning to gaze at Sansa, he gave a polite bow of his head. “Lady Sansa, it is good to see you. You look well.” In that moment Sandor had never wanted to throttle the man more.   
Sansa kept a straight face with an air of indifference as she addressed her ex-husband. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. The Northern air agrees with me. Let us adjourn to the Great Hall for refreshment.” Sansa led the way as Jon and the dragon queen followed.   
“Never thought I would see you here, Clegane.” Tyrion stated as he started walking by him.   
“Keep fucking walking, Imp.” Sandor spat back quietly. He did not have to pretend to like anyone here. Tyrion chuckled but continued his waddling. Sandor hung back as a few of the queen’s people followed into the warmth of the Great Hall. Arya had not followed immediately and Sandor wanted to say something to her but clamped his mouth shut last minute. Arya was staring at those from the procession, her eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Curious and confused, Sandor followed her gaze to see a strong-looking, black-haired man watching her with equal amount of shock. He recognized the man, he had gone with the ill-fated group over the Wall to retrieve a dead man. How did he know Arya? A moment passed before they ran into each other’s arms and embraced, oblivious to the looks around them. 

Sandor could hear the footfalls coming up beside him and knew who it was before looking. Few others were close to his height in Westeros. Damn the women and her honor, why can’t she leave me alone? “Who the fuck is that?” He did not tear his eyes away from the two, not wanting to engage with her.   
“Gendry Waters. A blacksmith, friend of Ser Davos.” Brienne of Tarth explained coming to stand by his side, watching the two also. “I did not know they were acquainted.”   
He snorted. “They look a whole lot more than acquainted.” A protective side rose up as he wondered more about the man who had his arms loosely around Arya, talking animatedly with her. He needed to ask Ser Davos a few questions.   
“Jon mentioned you were alive and had come to Winterfell to protect Lady Sansa.” The lady knight commented, eyeing him. “I was surprised to hear you were alive.”  
“I’m a hard fucker to kill but you came damn close.” He turned and started walking towards the Great Hall. Footsteps continued beside him and he repressed a groan. Seven hells!   
“The way it appears… are you her sworn shield?” Brienne kept pace with him, her armor clinging as she walked.   
“I’m protecting her but I’m not her fucking sworn shield.” He growled out. Honestly, he did not want to be reminded that his role would be changing with Brienne back. He selfishly wished she had stayed in King’s Landing or died on the way to Winterfell.   
“Good. I thank you for your service but I am now capable of resuming my duties as her sworn shield and you are no longer required.”  
Could the woman be anymore irritating? “Once the lady says so. Now fuck off.” He rudely pushed around her and walked into the Great Hall desperately in need of a drink…or several. 

That evening a chosen group of people met in the lord’s solar after the evening meal. Earlier that day, Sansa had removed her things from the lord’s room to give to Jon and moved to her sister’s room. Before the arrival of what felt like the whole world, Sansa had spoken with Sandor that he would keep his room, much to his disagreement. He argued because he was not her sworn shield and her sister could protect her in their shared room, he should move to the barracks with the other men-at-arms. He felt like he would be encroaching on the family’s territory if he stayed, plus he did not want to get on Jon’s bad side any worse in case Jon found out about him and Sansa’s prior sleeping arrangements. She confessed she actually had no intention of sleeping in her sister’s room but would continue to sleep in his room, even though he snored loud enough to make the bed shake. He had laughed at her, pleased he was not having to give her up yet but also apprehensive for the repercussions. He was only a second son of a lesser house, a dog, a killer, who would spend his afterlife in one of the seven hells for all his crimes; but when she lay asleep in his arms, blissful, he felt as if a goddess had come down to give him a taste of heaven. He did not deserve her and he knew he would have to give her up eventually to some cunt lord. She was a highborn lady and he was…nothing. That would be a worry for later, now they had to kill a dead army.   
Sandor leaned against a far wall, arms across his chest, behind Sansa. He looked around at the people in the room, surprised he had been invited. Jon Snow paced in the center of the room, a deep scowl on his face. The dragon queen sat regally near the hearth, eyes rotating between watching the fire and Jon pace. Sandor admitted she was beautiful in an exotic way with her silver-white hair, striking features, and an air of authority like a cloak around her. She was not his little bird though, no one could compare to the beauty of Sansa in his eyes. The queen’s two strange advisors stood behind her; the dark-skinned woman and the stone-faced man, the leader of the cockless army. Tyrion lounged in a chair drinking glass after glass of wine. If Sandor did not despise the Lannister so much, he would have been impressed with how much the Imp could drink and still hold a coherent conversation. Ser Davos whittled away at something near Sandor, seeming as awkwardly out of place as Sandor felt. He must have let out a grunt because Sansa looked back at him and smiled, her blue eyes sparkling, before facing forward again.   
“While we are waiting, I would loath to be without the story of how the Hound became your sworn shield, Lady Sansa.” The Imp casually remarked, watching her as he turned the cup of wine in his hand. Luckily before she had to reply the door opened and the rest of the group joined them. Arya pushed Bran’s mobile chair into the room and next to the fire. He stared into the flames, eyes almost glazed over as Arya stepped away and came to stand next to Sandor.   
“This will be interesting.” She whispered, loosely spinning a dagger in her hands.   
He snorted but did not respond, keeping his eyes forward.   
“Bran, you called this meeting. What is so urgent?” Jon stopped pacing to look at his crippled half-brother.   
Bran continued to stare into the flames a few more silent moments before turning to face Jon. His voice and face were detached and expressionless as he spoke, as if making a bored comment about the weather. “The Wall at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea has fallen. The dead have crossed it and are coming south.”   
It was as if all the air left the room. No one spoke as the horror of what Bran just said circulated and seeped into their minds depositing fear and terror. Sandor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He had seen the army…knew what they could do…and now their last physical barrier was gone. How will we survive this? Do we even have a chance?  
Bran continued speaking unhindered, staring at Jon with his strange, all-knowing eyes. “The Night King and his army are almost to the Last Hearth.”   
“How?... How did they get past the Wall?” Jon stuttered, eyes wide. “How do you know this?”  
“I am the Three-Eyed-Raven now. I see the past and present at all times.” He cryptically explained looking back to the fire. “You left a dragon behind when you went past the Wall. The Night King rides him now. He used dragon fire to tear down the Wall and the ancient spells that protected it.”  
“No!” Queen Danerys cried out, her body rigid, shock on her face. “It cannot be.”  
Sandor remembered hearing that she considered her three dragons as her children. She had wept fiercely after they crossed back over the Wall in mourning for her dragon that had been shot down by the Night King. Now the fucking dead dragon is coming to kill us. Sandor ran his hand over his face. In all the conservable nightmares he had thought up regarding the dead army, he had never considered a dead dragon to be apart of it.   
“Any other ill news you wish to share?” Tyrion sarcastically remarked, staring into his cup.   
“Queen Cercei lied about agreeing to help in the battle. She has hired the Golden Company to destroy what is left of us if we survive against the dead.”  
Jon practically fell down into a chair, putting his head in his hands. “How do we fight two armies? Even if we somehow win, winter is upon us.” He sounded morose as if the weight of the news was crushing him already.   
The dragon queen leaned forward, a tear on her pale cheek and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I did not lose one of my children to give up now.” Her voice caught for a moment, a cry unable to escape. “We will fight.”   
Jon nodded and placed a hand over hers. “How long do we have until they are here?” Jon asked, staring at Bran.  
“A week.”  
“Tomorrow we will begin strategizing and figuring out how to best fight them.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “Sansa, how are the repairs of our defenses going?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you again to all who are reading this and have left comments! You guys are the best and I am so glad you are enjoying the story.

The next several days were a continuous flurry of preparations, making plans, changing plans, then something going wrong, all while an oppressive blanket of doom smothered them. Sansa was not surprised when she became ill occasionally in the morning after not sleeping. The tension and stress were robbing her of sleep and apparently her health. The days leading up to the battle were the most exhausting and draining of her life; she kept reminding herself that at the end of the week, either she would be alive to recover or dead. In his bed…or was it their bed now?... was the only time she got to see Sandor. Jon had put Sandor in charge of helping prepare the men to fight the dead and making sure as many as possible received the weapons made of dragon glass. He left their bed before the sun rose and returned late, often skipping the evening meal in the Great Hall. Although she knew he was exhausted, he always made time for her at night to either talk or lay together. Once he jokingly commented how he missed being able to truly stretch out in bed and not have to share. They laughed after she pretended to be offended and leave but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap, planting a rough kiss on her neck. She confessed how she noticed that a certain blacksmith had begun to slip into Arya’s room after Sansa snuck out. So even if she wanted to leave, she could not stay with her sister. 

The fourth day after Jon’s return, he asked Sansa to meet him in the lord’s solar. It had become the base where Jon met for private meetings, otherwise he preferred the Great Hall so all the lords could be involved in the planning. Sansa occasionally frequented the meetings but found herself working with Maester Wolkin preparing for the approaching winter and refugees. More and more people streamed into Winterfell and the surrounding area, unsure of where else to go. The War of the Five Kings had devastated the country and with resources limited in the south, Winterfell had become a beacon for those above the Twins. Unfortunately, most of the refugees were unaware of the approaching dead army.   
She entered the solar surprised that Jon was not alone. She had assumed it was a personal matter he wished to speak of since he requested she come to the solar. Queen Danerys sat at the desk, reading a raven’s message. Her piercing eyes shot upward when Sansa entered the room but her lips remained taut. Ser Davos and Tyrion stood by the fire discussing something that both had their faces grim. Only Jon looked up with a faint smile and approached her. There were dark circles under his eyes and she guiltily wondered how often he let himself sleep.   
“Sansa, thank you for coming.” He closed the door behind her and ushered her further into the room to sit in a chair. Ser Davos and Tyrion had stopped speaking, watching her. As they all watched her, Sansa felt on edge. Something was not right. She tried to appear calm but her heart started to race. What does Jon want? Placing her hands prettily in her lap, she gently touched the dagger that Sandor had given her, hidden away against her forearm, ready to grab it if need be. Her experience as of late made her wary of being without some form of weapon.   
Jon leaned back against the desk. He glanced at the dragon queen behind him, still sitting before facing her with a grim expression. He was never one to mince words and launched straight into the topic. “We have decided to send all that can’t fight south. It’s a long shot now that it’ll do any good but hopefully there will be less innocent casualties than if they stayed here.”  
“If we win.”  
Jon winced and nodded at her comment. “Aye, if we win. The caravan leaves tomorrow…and you will lead them south.”  
A punch to the gut would have been less unexpected than what Jon announced. Her mind scrambled to understand and justify what he just said. This was her home, she could not leave? She just got what was left of her family back. Amidst the fear and turmoil she was happier now than she had been for years; and he wanted her to abandon it?  
“I know what I am asking of you isn’t easy but we need someone…”  
“No.”  
A startled look crossed his face at the venom in her voice. “Sansa, we need…”  
“No.” In that moment she was tired of having people tell her what to do. She had been forced to bow to the will of others for her whole life…but no longer. A rage rose up inside of her. Sandor had called her a hawk, she would let them feel her talons. She was a Stark, a direwolf, she would tear them apart with her teeth. If the world was coming to an end, her place was at her home with those she cared for. She would decide her own fate. “I am the Lady of Winterfell and here I will remain until the end of time itself. A Stark must always remain in Winterfell.”  
“There will be a Stark…” Jon attempted to refute her but she cut him off, fire in her eyes.   
“Who? Arya will head south soon to kill Cercei, even you cannot stop her from that quest. Bran has renounced his claim on Winterfell. You may be King of the North but you are a bastard and not a true Stark. Everyone else is dead!”  
“Lady Sansa, this will be no place for a lady as yourself.” Tyrion stated, walking towards her from the hearth. “You helped save Winterfell from the Boltons but…”  
“Do you know what I endured under Ramsey Bolton, dear husband?” Sansa stood, towering over the little man, hissing through her teeth. She was not sure when the fire inside of her had become an inferno but it consumed her and she let the anger she felt drip off every word. “He was not kind like you were to me. He raped me every day, and those were the days he was feeling generous. He tortured me. Bleed me. Cut and burned me. I lived through all seven hells while with him. There is nothing that the dead can do to me that is worse than what I have already endured.”  
Tyrion’s mouth hung open as she reproached him. “My sincerest sympathies for your pain but..”  
“Fuck your sympathies.” Jon jerked from her word choice. She wondered if some of Sandor’s vernacular was rubbing off on her. “This is my home. I will not abandon it.”  
No one spoke for several stunned minutes, the air charged in that one ill word would send Sansa spewing more fire at those in her way than the two dragons outside.   
Finally Queen Danerys raised her voice, firmly staring Sansa down. “As your queen, I command you to do this.”  
Sansa glared at Queen Danerys, civility gone, only raw emotion remaining. “You are not my queen. Jon may have declared his oath to you but I have made no oath yet. You are just another ruler fighting for the cursed Iron Throne.” The looked of absolute shock on the four faces surrounding her only fueled her internal inferno. She was a hawk. She was a wolf. She would not back down. “Now if there is nothing else, my lords, your graces, I will begin to see the preparation for the caravan. I know you will make a wise choice for whom will lead them.” She gave a quick curtsey and turned away, not bothering for their permission to leave. Once she stepped out and closed the door behind her, she rested her forehead against the cool stone of the hallway, letting the fire die down inside her. She was the Lady of Winterfell, she would not leave her home. 

 

That evening Sansa sat on the edge of her bed…his bed…their bed? It did not really matter anymore. Brushing her hair, she thought about if there was anything else they could spare for the caravan leaving tomorrow. The announcement had come during the evening meal that Ser Davos would lead the caravan. Queen Danerys had refused to make eye contact or acknowledge Sansa even though they sat at the high table only separated by Jon. Sansa thought it was a good choice of leadership but refused to say anything, eating her meal quietly. She wondered how relations would be with the dragon queen after, but many things could change after the battle so she chose not to dwell on it.   
The door opened and Sandor walked in, hair slightly disheveled. He leaned against the door after closing it, watching her with a smirk on his face and eyes alight, running a hand over his beard.   
“What?” Sansa finally probed, feeling self-conscious.   
His smile only widened as his eyes swept over her body and seemed to look at her in a new light. “Ser Davos told me about your meeting today.”  
A blush warmed her cheeks.   
That seemed to spur him on for in the next moment he rushed her, tossing her back on the bed, hanging over her. He kissed her passionately and she openly responded. After several moments he leaned back to stare into her eyes.   
“Fuck, I wish I had been there to see it. Those cunts need to be reminded they don’t make all the rules.”  
She smiled sheepishly. “I swore at the Imp.”  
His eyebrows rose. “Little bird!” He then chuckled. “It would seem you have spent too much time around me.”  
Their proximity and the warmth of his body over hers made her desire him. Her heart was already racing from this kissing. She licked her bottom lip, staring into his eyes. Her hand found its way to the back of his neck, daring him to come closer. “I am a hawk and a wolf. I decide my own fate. You taught me that.”  
He gently pressed his lips to hers this time. “At least I have done one thing right my whole damn life.” He murmured into her neck.   
“I know something else you can do right…” She took her other hand as she spoke and slipped it over his hard manhood.   
Their desire and passion for one another exploded and raced through their veins. Their clothing quickly hit the floor amongst kisses and laughter. Here in this moment they only had each other and that was all Sansa wanted. A dead army was coming to kill them but they allowed themselves to have one more night of bliss together. 

 

Three days later, their doom appeared on the horizon.


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor stood inspecting newly forged dragonglass daggers by the black-haired blacksmith when the horn sounded. He froze, holding one of the daggers precariously before turning on his heel and running out into the courtyard without a word. With the horn sounding, chaos erupted and the world’s end came into view. Sandor ran to the wall, up the stairs and stared out over the ramparts. A fog of thick white was slowly approaching. It reminded Sandor of the ominous clouds that precede a terrible thunderstorm. Except these clouds were white…white like ice and snow…white like a body drained of its life blood. He began to bark out orders to the men-at-arms and bannermen around him as he made his way back to the courtyard. Tendrils of fear tried to latch onto him but he kicked them away. He had to focus and keep the men from seeing his fear. They had planned for this, now it was time to live or die.

He sprinted to Ser Hallwyn’s room in the barracks. The two decided during the past week to keep Sandor’s armor there so when the time came, he would not have to rush to the Keep and find someone to help him put it on. Ser Hallwyn was absent but his squire remained, stuttering that Ser Hallwyn told him to wait and help Sandor. The boy radiated fear but he quickly helped Sandor put his armor on, his fingers trembling slightly. With a strange rush of gratitude, Sandor clapped the boy on the shoulder before stepping back out into the courtyard, ready to fight and probably die. The battleplan was to keep the fight outside the gates of Winterfell, to try and protect those hidden inside. Archers and bannermen lined the ramparts, eyes glued to the slowly approaching enemy amongst the white fog. The cry of the two nearby dragons amplified the sounds of chaos as they took to the skies. He caught a glimpse of Jon Snow yelling commands but did not falter in his steps, he had to get to his battle position. Someone had to take charge of the bumbling idiots outside of the gates. He wished he could see Sansa one last time but they had reiterated their devotion to one another last night and that was good enough for him. He could die knowing the most beautiful woman in the world loved him. That fact would never stop surprising him.

“Berdain!” Sandor called over to a man standing next to the gate. “Make sure the fires are ready! Adalwyn! Check the oil along the walls! We’re going to burn the fuckers to ash!” He made his way towards the gate where the men under his command waited for him outside. He had been given command of a large portion of the men-at-arms whom had been chosen to fight outside the gates. He had trained them mercilessly in the past week, preparing them for the fight of their lives. He hoped it was enough.

“Sandor!” A desperate voice called from behind him, causing him to change direction so fast the sword on his hip crashed against his side painfully. Sansa ran up to him and unashamedly wrapped her arms around him, tears spilling down her lovely face.

“Sansa, get back to the Keep!” He scolded her but his traitorous arms wrapped themselves around her just as tightly. Glancing up he could see Brienne standing awkwardly to the side, like a large blonde boulder caught amongst a sea of soldiers running around to their posts. “You go with Brienne now. You stay alive.” _Why wasn’t she inside already?_

“Don’t you dare die, Sandor Clegane!” Sansa grabbed his face and stared with a ferocious determination, as if her words added an extra layer of armor. Tears spilled from her vibrant eyes.

“I’ll try.” He needed to get to his men but he wanted to gaze at her one last time, his little bird. _Gods, she is beautiful and strong._ He was not a praying man, the seven from the South had never heeded his prayers before nor seemed to take an interest in their devoted. He found himself silently praying, the first time in many years, but this time a cry to the old gods of the North. _Please keep her safe. Let her live and be happy._

“No, you can’t die. We need you.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, taking a deep breath. “I know, little bird.” Listening to her was tearing him up, he needed to get to his men quickly otherwise his aching desire to stay with her would prove too strong.

“No, you don’t!” Roughly she grabbed his hands from around her waist and pressed them to her stomach, eyes never leaving his. “We need you.”

His mind went blank, not understanding what she was saying. She had been ill often the past mornings but she promised it had been due to stress and lack of sleep. Slowly, a dawning realization materialized in his mind with what she was implying. It couldn’t be. “Sansa…are you…?”

A smile on her face, she choked out a laugh. “Yes! I’m carrying your child, Sandor.”

In that moment the whole world went quiet and nothing mattered beyond the beauty in front of him and the life his hands were pressed against. He had given up long ago on family and ever having one himself. The only love he would receive was bought with coin and no whore would willingly carry his child, they could barely look at his ugly face. He felt weightless, his mind reeling at the news. _I am a father? I will be a father?_ His mind could not accept it, refused to accept it. He had been in many battles and fights, never stumbling or feigned with fright, he accepted and thrived in the bloodlust and fury in battle that would overcome it, he would welcome it. Now, he felt like his legs could collapse underneath him. _A father?_ His heart lurched within his chest, a painful joy in anticipation. Why at the end of the world did he finally realize how much the idea of a family meant to him. How he had longed for it his whole life, yeaned to love and be loved.

It took Sansa grabbing his face again to bring him back to reality. “Don’t you leave us, Sandor. Our child needs a father.” He had not noticed the tear on his cheek until she wiped it away with her thumb.

His hands moved up from her stomach to cup her face. “I love you, little bird.” He kissed her with all the emotion and passion in his being. He did not give a fuck about who was watching him kiss their Lady. She was his and he was hers and their love had created life. The kiss was his promise to return. He would not abandon her again. He would not abandon their child.

“I love you, Sandor.” Sansa stared lovingly at him before releasing him and stepping back. “Now kill those dead bastards and return to me.”

“Yes, my lady.” Sandor looked up and made eye contact with Brienne, whom was clearly uncomfortable with the displays of affection before her. “You fucking keep her safe.”

Brienne nodded, eyeing him disdainfully. “I will.”

Sandor swooped in for one more heart-wrenching kiss before turning and racing through the gate before he refused to leave her side. He ran to his men, drawing his sword out of its scabbard. Terror filled the eyes of many, most knowing this would be their final day. The approaching battle was an impossible one. How do the living fight the dead and survive? How long would the night last being the morning came to burn away the shadows that filled men with fear? Yet now, a new determination filled Sandor. This would not be his last day. There was too much in life needing him now. Never before had life gripped him so strongly, forcing him to bend to its will to live, to see another day and not carelessly throw his life away. He walked through his men with a single-minded purpose. He raised his sword, a war cry to rally those about to die around him. “Let’s send the dead fuckers to hell!”

The battle started in the late afternoon, while the sun slowly made its way down from its zenith. The dead came at them, hungry for blood. There was something about being in the midst of a fight, for Sandor, that the world seemed to slow down. Bloodlust filled his veins and his sword sang with every kill. It was a dance but with dire consequences for every misstep. If he had looked around, he would have witnessed many dying around him. The death toll was steadily rising but he continued to fight. His body was beyond the point of exhaustion and threatening to collapse yet he still swung his mighty sword. Each step, each swing of his sword, he thought of Sansa and their child. He was no longer fighting to live, he fought so his child could have a home. Something he had been denied. Fires were burning purposely around Winterfell as a defense. At the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Sandor had run because of the fires. Not now, no matter what he would stand his ground, even with the fires as his sole fighting companions. The dead would have to tear him limb from limb and burn him before he stopped fighting. He would not abandon those he loved.

In the midst of combat, he found himself fighting beside Arya to his surprise. The brat should be back behind the walls of Winterfell, not stabbing and slashing at those thirsty to drain her lifeblood. He figured she had snuck out when Jon was not paying attention and bullied her way onto the field of battle. She was fighting with two swords, a long, slender blade and her Needle. If he had a moment to appreciate her fighting style, he would have been impressed with her agility and graceful fighting style. Nothing seemed to be able to get close enough to touch her before meeting its end by one of her bloody swords. He noticed the blacksmith on her other side with his imposing warhammer, crushing and bashing those coming between him and Arya. The ebb and flow of the fighting brought them close to Sandor and he momentarily wondered where the rest of his fighting men were, there should have been more of them.

“Arya!” He called over to the fighting she-wolf. “Get back to the gate!”

She ignored him, slashing at an foe before turning her steely gray eyes to him. “I’m not leaving you.”

He cleaved a dead man in two before taking three long strides to stand by her side. “We cannot leave the gate undefended. Take Gendry and go! Make sure the gate does not fall!” He not could have his attention split between fighting and keeping an eye on her. He was not sure how many men were left alive. If Arya protected the gate, the chance of it being preserved rose enough that those inside may yet survive. He needed her off the open field of battle.

“You are the worst shit in the seven kingdoms!”

He barked out a laugh, momentarily brought back to a different time and circumstance when she had called him that. “Glad we can agree on something.”

Without another word to him, she turned and started towards the gate somewhere behind them. Sandor kept his eyes forward, trying his best to guard her back as much as he could. He sent another fervent prayer to the old gods as he decapitated one of the fighting dead. He was not sure when the day turned into night but only the fires now lit the field for the adversaries to see one another. At one point he found himself charging and single-handedly fighting a white walker. It was the most intense fight of his life yet he had never felt so alive. He was beyond pain, beyond fear. Only bloodlust and the will for life to continue filled him. He vanquished the white walker by slicing its throat and spilling its black blood onto the thirsty ground. He did not have long to celebrate for one of the dead came at him from behind. The screams of the dragons were muffled by the roar of the fires and the cries of the dying. Time was no longer a measurement for Sandor. He lived in the moment, one breath to the next. Suddenly the dead around him fell to the ground, unmoving. Their pale, blue eyes staring but not seeing anything. Sandor hacked at the one he had just been fighting but there was no retaliation from his opponent.

For the first time, he stopped and really looked around him at the carnage and destruction. There were few others like himself standing, surveying hesitantly to see if the dead would rise again. The number of bodies lying on the field was immeasurable. The fires still raged, illuminating the field of death and horror Sandor stood upon. A pregnant silence hovered over the field until a single cry rang out. It quickly gained momentum as it flew over the field. A cheer, a shout of victory was tasted on the lips of those still standing. The Night King was dead. They had won. They had beaten back the darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa reclined under the heart tree in the godswood. The crisp, cold of winter was slowly abating to the colors and warmth of a dawning spring. Maester Wolkin said this had been the shortest winter in living memory. That came as no real surprise with the death of the Night King; it felt as if nature had been holding its breath and now breathed again, giving for beauty and serenity. Sansa found herself humming the Mother’s Hymn as the red leaves rustled around her. It had been eight months since the battle against the dead and she still lamented the significant losses that occurred that day. 

House Targaryen had finally ceased to be with the death of Queen Danerys. During the physical battle, Bran had fought the Night King for mind control over the dead dragon, barely keeping influence until Danerys and her dragons entered the fray for physical dominance. They managed to bring the Night King and his dragon down and bath them in a torrent of dragon fire. The Night King speared Danerys in rage, the fire burning yet not consuming him. With her final breaths, she pulled the spear from out of her own body and drove it through her dead child. In anguish, Jon Snow viciously attacked the Night King with Longclaw, a fight of fire and ice. Their fight was harrowing and unmatched yet neither bested the other for Jon managed to deal a fatal blow with his Valyrian steel but did not escape from his own grievous wounds. With the death of the Night King, all the dead under his influence ceased to fight. The list of the victorious dead was agonizingly long and many good men and women perished during the battle to defend the living. 

 

Quickly after the battle, Arya traveled south with Gendry and a few others. The hope was she could stop Queen Cercei and prevent the next battle with the hired Golden Company. There were not enough survivors to defend Winterfell again, their strength was minimal and fragile. Sansa thought of that day, the last time she saw her sister. They had hugged for a long time, standing in the courtyard of Winterfell. The men sat on the ready horses waiting but Sansa could not let her sister go. A part of her knew that if anyone could survive this world it was Arya, she was one of the strongest, bravest people Sansa knew yet it felt like a small piece of her heart was breaking for a reunion was unlikely for a long time. After so much death, she just wanted to keep her sister safe and close by. 

“Cercei has been on my list for many years. I need to do this.” Arya softly said, her arms around her sister. 

Sansa sniffed. Being pregnant had made her weepy about everything but she tried to hold back her tears. “I know. I know you will do this and Westeros will be better for it, I just hate to see you go.”

“I promise I’ll come straight back.”

Sansa released her sister and looked over at the nearby Gendry, catching his eye. “You keep her safe for me, Gendry Waters. I need her to come home.”

He gave a slight bow, sitting on his horse. “Yes, my lady.”

“I can watch out for myself. It’s Gendry that needs to watch his back.” Arya huffed, looking between her sister and her lover. 

“As you command, milady.” Gendry winked. 

“Ugh!” Arya gave Sansa a quick peck on the cheek before mounting her own horse and leading the small band of men out of Winterfell. 

A few weeks later, Tyrion Lannister and what was left of Queen Danerys’ army began their march south. It had been decided that once Queen Cercei was dead, Tyrion would be named King, with Varys as his Hand and Missandei as a trusted advisor. One of his first decrees after being named “future king”, Tyrion had named Sansa Wardeness of the North and promised she would always have a place in the council at King’s Landing, That was the last thing she wanted, she had no desire to ever go back to King’s Landing. It had been a place of torment for her but she smiled and profusely thanked him anyway. Her place was in the North with her people. 

 

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

Sansa was drawn from her thoughts as Sandor came up behind her. She carefully rose from her sitting position, to greet her husband with a chaste kiss. They had quietly wedded after Tyrion and his army left, desiring privacy and peace for their nuptials. This had been her third wedding, she no longer desired the beautiful gowns and crowds to adore her as she pledged herself to someone. This was her marriage by choice and she wanted it cherish every moment without a crowd to worry about. 

“How are my little birds?” Sandor leaned down and ever so gently kissed the forehead of his sleeping baby girl in Sansa’s arms. 

“This seems to be her favorite place to sleep.” Sansa commented, gazing down at her daughter. The girl was not even a month old but had stolen the hearts of everyone in Winterfell. She had her father’s brown hair and her mother’s vivid blue eyes. She had come in the middle of the night, a small cry while the wolves howled to the full moon. Sandor had refused to leave Sansa’s side during her birthing, much to the dismay of the Maester. He held her hand, offering his support and strength as she screamed with each wave of pain bringing forth new life from within her body. She did not think she could have loved him anymore after spending a day and night with her, comforting and encouraging as he could. 

“A raven came.”

“Oh?”

“Queen Cercei is dead…and sounds like my brother too.”

Sansa laid a hand on Sandor’s arm, they had been expecting this but it still sent a shock through her. “What did it say?”

“Something about Cercei killing herself with poison and ‘the Mountain is now a pile of ash’.” He clenched his jaw, face tense. “She promised she would do that for me.”

“Arya?”

“Aye. For me, she said she would make him burn.”

Mixed emotions collided for dominance inside Sansa. Horror that her sister had purposely burned someone alive, even someone as vile and villainous as Ser Gregor Clegane. He had raped and murdered innocents all over the Riverlands under the command of the Lannisters. He had permanently mutilated his own brother as a child. Westeros was a much better place without him in it. Yet she felt sadness and pain for Sandor because she understood that he wished he could have dealt the death blow to his abusive brother. It would take a long time for the hatred of his brother to dispel from Sandor. His life and those that Ser Gregor had viciously taken were avenged. She thought of her own fire for vengeance that burned within her when she killed Ramsey. She had wanted his life blood spilt on her command, by her hand. It had helped heal a part of her wounds from him; she hoped Sandor’s own personal pains would be able to find a different way to heal without bloodshed. 

“When she gets back, I’m sure she’ll tell you all the details.” Before they could comment further, a soft coo danced upward drawing their attention to their baby, suddenly alert and watching them. “She is probably getting hungry, want to walk with us to the Keep?”

Sandor kissed Sansa’s temple then wrapped an arm around her waist as they began walking. 

“We had a meeting this morning…” Sansa began trying to sound casual but gauging Sandor’s expression. 

“Mmm?”

“…making plans for the future coronation of Tyrion…”

“Fucking Imp.”

“…and who should go to represent. There were several other important matters we discussed…”

“Maester Wolkin likes to hear his own voice.”

“…I sent someone to find you but they couldn’t…”

“Probably a cunt tracker.”

“…I later learned Stranger was missing too.”

“Huh?”

She smiled up at Sandor, like a nursemaid gently scolding a rebellious child. “You are the Lord of Winterfell, eventually you are going to have to attend these meetings.”

He snorted. “I agreed to marry you, I never agreed to be a fucking lord…Oh!” Sansa elbowed him in the ribs, a smirk on her face. “I don’t know how to run a castle or the whole damn North! I am only good at training and beating the men.”

“I don’t expect you to know all.” She paused a moment before continuing. “I need your support, the other lords and men value your opinion and expect you to take an interest in your home.” She sighed. “If you show up and not say a word, that is fine. I’ll make sure you have a bottomless mug of ale. I just need you to sit there and look like a lord.”

“You drive a hard bargain, little bird.”

“It was either that or you won’t be invited to share my bed anymore.”

“Oh! Your bed? It was my fucking bed from the beginning!”

“But I am the Lady of Winterfell and can choose where I wish to lay my head, thus I claim it as mine.”

Sandor laughed, disturbing a nearby bird. “So if I attend the next meeting, I don’t have to say a word, drink as much ale as I want and can still sleep in my bed?”

“Think that is too much for you?”

His tone changed from amused to sincere. “For you, I would do anything.”

She stopped him and placed a hand on his chest. “I know you would, beloved.” She kissed him, not caring anymore who was around. Life and happiness was something that had been fought for and she intended to bask in the rewards as much as possible. With all the both of them had been through in their lives, it amazed her that they found love. She intended to embrace every moment of it that she could. A coy smile slipped onto Sansa’s lips. “Perhaps I should start calling you ‘my lord’ instead of ‘beloved’. It would be much more proper.”

“Don’t call me that.” He growled. “Being married to you is more fucking work than I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats! You made it to the end! Thank you again for all who have read this! I hope you enjoyed Sandor and Sansa's journey as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think. 
> 
>  
> 
> Side note: I have started a new fanfiction of a modern AU in which Arya Stark is a college student who meets a intriguing, foreign teaching assistant named Jaqen H'ghar, things are never quite what they seem.... Stay tuned. :)


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